Thaw
by emmythos
Summary: Unofficial sequel to Counterfeit God's Cold, But Not Dead. Sephiroth had no intention of ever seeing Vincent again, but fate has a way of bringing them violently together.
1. Chapter 1

Crossposted from Archive of Our Own. You can find me there at /users/Emmythos/works, as well as more detailed information regarding content. I will summarize here.

This story will make absolutely no sense if you haven't read Cold, But Not Dead by Counterfeit God, a sixty-one chapter unfinished opus from 2008/2009 that is still available to read on this website despite absolutely obliterating the TOS. I would recommend consulting the content warning I provide in the first chapter posted on AO3 if you are not already familiar with it. If you _are_ familiar with it, please be aware that this is not an official continuation, but an alternate timeline of sorts, and that Chapter 61 has been retconned and no longer exists in the context of this story. It is also worth noting that this is pure self-indulgence, as I lack both the talent and vision to complete the original.

Thorough tagging is provided on AO3, although I will still include individual chapter warnings here. Explicit sexual content will be exclusive to AO3, as well as any commissioned artwork.

**CHAPTER WARNINGS: Non-explicit rape, depictions of abuse, some violence**

* * *

The small room was laden with out-dated communications equipment. The large screen on the wall opposite the door was dusty and cracked in the right uppermost corner, and the radio underneath it beeped lazily, visibly damaged but presumably still capable of receiving incoming transmissions. Outgoing was another matter entirely. The microphone would no longer turn on, and the camera was shattered beyond repair, rendering the entire setup functionally useless. It was a far cry from Shinra's sophisticated technology.

Sephiroth was pacing in front of the screen. He had converted the space into what he had hoped would be a temporary office upon their arrival at the unassuming little cabin northeast of Icicle Inn almost a year ago, but it had become the only place—barring the frigid wilderness surrounding them—where he could think in relative peace. The overall mood of the residence was… tense, and Sephiroth himself had been growing more and more restless as the months dragged on.

His decision to abandon Shinra had not been well thought out, but had seemed at the time to be the only reasonable course of action. He had gone AWOL immediately following the call from Angeal informing him of the degradation, not even bothering to return to Midgar to pack, just making his way to Icicle Inn as swiftly and secretly as possible. They had left Gast's primary residence soon after. All cell phones and similar tech had been destroyed, but it made little difference to Sephiroth if Shinra had some idea of their whereabouts or not. They would be too fearful to confront him, and too reluctant to terminate him. If anything, they would be discussing how best to appease their prize commodity in order to seduce him back into their service. Sephiroth wasn't sure exactly, how he planned to deal with them, but would do so only when absolutely necessary.

He had taken it surprisingly well, he supposed, the reality of the experimentation that had made him. He had grown up an experiment in Hojo's lab, so it only made sense that it had preceded his birth as well, given how different he was… how different he had always been. He knew now, that Jenova was not his mother. But Gast had claimed no knowledge of his true parentage, stuttering on about how his research was only tangentially connected with Hojo's, about how secretive Hojo had been about it all before it was confirmed a success. That night, Sephiroth had caught him just as he'd shoved the last of a box full of old documents into the blazing furnace.

Nothing personal had been exchanged since. Sephiroth said only what was necessary to discuss if and how Angeal and Genesis might be cured. Gast seemed too fearful—or perhaps it was simply guilt—to push him. Sephiroth mostly ignored the old man, well aware of the grief-stricken looks he threw his way. He did not trust himself to maintain his detachment were they to speak of the more… intimate details of the past. What did it matter why Gast had left? He had done it. Let him wallow in his guilt. Let him look at the monster he'd left behind in that cold, dark hell and despair.

A tendril of thought squirmed into his brain, insistent and uncomfortable. It was something he had not been able to rid himself of for the past year.

Had he not left behind Vincent? Left him in the service of a wicked corporation, ignorant of the crimes that had driven Sephiroth to leave?

He crushed the thought immediately, a coldness settling over his insides that was almost comforting. There had been no other option. Telling him would have been a liability, and taking him with them out of the question. Vincent had never been a victim of Shinra's propaganda, more than aware of the company's numerous other misdeeds. It was his decision now… to stay with SOLDIER, or to pursue a future elsewhere. He was young; there was still time. Sephiroth had done his part.

There was no place for Vincent in his heart. There never had been. Running away with him would have only encouraged his childish attachment and worsened the fallout when the time came to set him aside. Vincent had no choice now, but to move forward. There was no longer any reason to think of him.

Or so he told himself.

His blood was a temporary salvation for Angeal and Genesis, but not a solution, the degradation eating away at it along with everything else despite its more harmonious properties. Gast tampered with the samples Sephiroth gave, trying to find some way to bind it to their own cells, to mimic his unique functions in their bodies, but nothing ever seemed to stick. So here they were, rotting away in the Northern Continent, grasping at straws. Sephiroth refused to consider the possibility that it was all nothing but an exercise in futility. That he had abandoned his life just to watch the only friends he had ever known slowly die. But yes… he was growing restless. He was not a saviour. He was a killer. And to put a killer in a cage of any kind was to invite destruction.

For once he was not alone in the room. Genesis—with whom he'd come to a reluctant, simmering, and likely short-lived truce out of necessity—was brooding in the corner closest to the door. His hair was almost completely auburn again, although wisps of white were a reminder that the danger was far from over. Angeal was seated on the worn couch across from him, along with Zack. Gast was busy with something in the basement.

The past year had been hard on Zack, and he wore the burden on his sleeve. He had been forced to abandon Shinra by association—they couldn't very well send him back without putting his life in jeopardy, not that he particularly wanted them to. He was loyal to Angeal, and he shared in their anger. But boredom, loneliness, and dread sat heavy on his shoulders. And he missed Vincent. Sephiroth knew this. He had asked about him, in the beginning. He didn't anymore.

Angeal, although fairing considerably better than Genesis, still looked drawn. The last failed injection had taken a toll on him. "I don't know how much longer we can stay here."

Sephiroth sighed, but stopped pacing to acknowledge his friend.

"We're not making any progress. We're underequipped. And we need to decide what to do about Shinra. I know you're not afraid of them, Seph, but they're not going to stall forever. I think we should consider relocating, at least for the time being."

"And where do you suggest we relocate to?" Sephiroth asked. "Where would we go that would grant us both asylum and sufficient equipment? Shinra have their claws deep into every corner of this planet. You and I both know this. You and I both helped do this."

Angeal frowned, looking away.

Sephiroth rubbed at his temple with one hand. "It's not that I disagree with you, Angeal," he said, more gently. "But I confess I cannot at present see a course of action that benefits us."

Genesis smirked, although it was an empty, bitter gesture. "What an unusual thing to witness. The great Sephiroth at a loss."

Angeal looked at his friend, clearly disappointed. "Don't, Genesis."

Sephiroth ignored him, continuing to speak to Angeal. "As loath as I am to admit it, it may be time to considering treating with Shinra. They were willing to terminate Genesis, but attempting such a thing on all three of us would be foolish. There is a good possibility they would be receptive to negotiations, and while I put little faith in them, they possess resources we currently lack."

"They were the ones who did this to us," Genesis spat, baring his teeth. "Maybe you're eager to work for them again, so you can go on as you always have, but don't think for a second we share your sentiments."

It wasn't for the first time that Sephiroth felt some semblance of regret over his decision to leave Shinra. It had been a rash thing to do—uncalculated, bred from anger. The influence he had possessed in Midgar had been significant. He could have stayed Shinra's hand, bought them time. Instead, he'd committed treason. If Gast could have been granted access to Shinra's technology...

It was Sephiroth's fault as well, that Hojo was dead. He had done it himself, in a foolish act of revenge after Vincent's experimentation, at Vincent's own behest. It left him with a feeling of bitterness towards the boy, bitterness he hardly deserved. But it was there all the same.

Genesis opened his mouth as if to say something more, but stopped short, looking past Sephiroth at what was behind him. Sephiroth turned.

A line of static flickered across the screen before promptly disappearing.

Angeal's brows knit together. "A malfunction?"

But it was humming to life. Sephiroth could hear it. There was more static—two slashes across the screen now, pulsating from top to bottom. The radio stuttered to life as well, muffled and scratchy. A computerized voice came through the speaker.

"_Call requested. To accept call, press one_."

Sephiroth didn't respond immediately, slowly checking over the outgoing equipment. He found it all to be as non-functioning as he had thought. Whoever was attempting contact—if someone _was_ attempting contact—would be blind and deaf to him. Good.

"It will not be Shinra," he said. "They would not attempt to contact us this way."

"Gast told me none of this has been used in years," Angeal added.

It should have been nothing, but they all watched as if transfixed. Sephiroth considered shutting everything down, but curiosity could get the better of even him.

"_Call requested. To accept call, press one. Call requested. To accept call, press one. Call reques_—"

Sephiroth slowly took his finger off the button. There wasn't an immediate change, although the static had overtaken most of the screen now, and there were sounds coming from the radio that sounded distinctly like a human voice, albeit warped and incomprehensible. Sephiroth's gut began to clench, a rare show of unease, although it should not have had any reason to do so during this particular occurrence. Something was wrong. The clarity of the voice continued to improve, only adding to the sense of foreboding. There was something about it he felt he ought to know, but at the same time, he couldn't place it. Then he made out the first almost intelligible word through all the interference.

"Vi—ent."

No. He had misheard. The couch creaked, and Sephiroth looked over to see Zack sitting stock-still and upright. There was a terrible sound from the radio, like nails on a chalkboard, but deafening. Then there was nothing. And then the voice came through, clear as day, and Sephiroth's insides turned to ice.

"Ah, it seems as though we've finally got through, rabbit. Would you like to say hello?"

For a moment no one spoke, the radio crackling a little, picking up movement from the other side. Every part of Sephiroth was screaming at him to destroy it, to shatter the screen into tiny jagged pieces, but he couldn't move. It was as if he was being pulled from the waking world into some sort of living nightmare, where time stood still and the past caught up. Angeal stood, visibly concerned.

"Sephiroth, what's wrong?"

Sephiroth wasn't given the time to answer even had he wanted to. The static went white, and then black. Finally, the picture appeared on the screen.

"It's been a long time, Sephiroth."

The man was only visible from just below his eyes to about mid-torso, but was unmistakable nonetheless. He looked relaxed, his left arm draped over the back of the couch on which he was seated. His grey suit was pristine, and the slicked-back blonde hair stopping just above the nape of his neck appeared rough and unpleasant, as if fingers could not be pushed through it. The only sign he was truly there in front of Sephiroth, and not some twisted hallucination from what felt like a lifetime ago, were the lines etched into the tan skin of his face.

"Thank you for answering my call. I see your side hasn't come through, which is a shame, but it's no matter. I appear to have made a connection at least. Besides, I'm sure you wouldn't have very nice things to say to me."

Jade laughed a little, without humour. His right arm looked as if it were toying with something. "I hope you're actually there, or whoever is has it set to record. I would hate for you to miss this. The last I heard of your location was some time ago, but considering your situation I would say my chances are good. Gast was never particularly adept at hiding."

"Do you know this man?" Angeal whispered, despite the fact they could not be heard.

"So, you actually left Shinra, and for someone other than yourself no less. I must admit I'm surprised. It was an excellent fit for your, shall we say… unique proclivities. You left behind some wonderful things. One little thing in particular comes to mind."

Sephiroth's heart began to palpitate furiously at the implication, hatred pumping through his veins, settling heavy and unyielding in his stomach. The man was talking about something else. He had to be.

"It took him some time, to come to terms with his own insignificance. It's a difficult thing, to realize you have no more worth than those who came and went before you. And you didn't even have the decency to tell him you were leaving, poor thing. I think that hurt him very deeply. But don't worry. He wasn't alone for long."

Jade placed his right hand over his chest. "You know me, Sephiroth. I've never been able to resist a broken heart calling out to mine. I gave him a few months to grieve, of course, before I helped him move on. He needed a little convincing, but saw my side of things quickly enough. I will be much better to him than you were. He arouses a passion in me like no other." He smiled, and it would have looked frighteningly genuine had Sephiroth not known better. "Not even you."

It was Zack who spoke this time, voice high-pitched and wavering. "What is he talking about?"

Jade paused. "It's an impressive weapon. I'm shocked you went to such expense for one of your toys." He reached down and to his left, and when his hand re-emerged, what it was holding made Sephiroth's gorge rise. "I would say he must have been special if I didn't know you so well."

Jade ran his fingers down the length of the gauntlet, marring the gold. "I might have done it just to hurt you, if you had a heart to hurt. But the reward in and of itself is more than enough."

Sephiroth finally acknowledged the others in the room. "Get Zack out of here," he said. "All of you leave now."

Angeal, although clearly distraught, refused to do as Sephiroth asked. "Genesis, take Zack." When Genesis didn't move, frozen as he continued to stare at the screen, Angeal turned on him sharply. "Now, Genesis."

Genesis grit his teeth, but for once in his life obeyed. He took Zack harshly by the arm and all but dragged him towards the door. Zack had started to cry, pulling fruitlessly against the powerful grip of the First.

"What does he mean, Sephiroth? What is he saying?" Zack was nearly hysterical, but Genesis did not relent, and the door closed behind them.

Jade's right arm was at his side, moving almost gently back and forth. "I imagine you may not want to believe me. Would you like to see him again? Would you even care to? I can hardly bear to look away myself. Such a lovely young man. Aren't you, rabbit?"

Jade was right; Sephiroth did not want to see. Seeing would make it real, all of it. Jade was alive. Jade knew things he should not, _could_ not know. And this… but the camera was already being readjusted. It fell now to Jade's right, resting between his waist and his shins. Sephiroth wanted desperately to look away, but did not.

Vincent was lying on his stomach next to Jade, his head in his lap, turned to face the camera. One thin arm was curled loosely around Jade's knee, gripping the fabric of his pants, and the other was tucked tightly beneath his own chest. He was wearing what looked like hospital garb—loose-fitting pants and a short-sleeved shirt, the back of which had been completely removed, held together by two strips of fabric tied at his neck and mid-back. The outfit would have been white if not for the myriad of bloodstains overwhelming the fabric. He was badly bruised, some fresh and bluish-purple—stark against his pale skin—and others yellowing. His black hair, much longer than it had been the last time Sephiroth had seen him, fell thickly over his face.

Jade continued to stroke the side of his head, finally pushing his hair back. His red eyes were half-closed, dilated and looking at nothing in particular, as he obediently allowed the man to do what he wanted. His lip was split, and his breathing measured but trembling, as though every inhalation caused him pain. His left eye was blackened, and the cheek significantly bruised, suggesting that at some point he had been brutally struck.

Jade's fingers moved from Vincent's hair to trail down his cheek, over his lips. "Yes, you look very pretty."

Angeal approached Sephiroth, his hand over his mouth and his eyes confused, but stricken. Sephiroth shut his own briefly, and then looked back at Vincent. Months. Vincent had been with Jade for months.

And Sephiroth had been the one to abandon him to his fate.

His façade of apathy was crumbling, leaving him raw and enraged. "Leave, Angeal."

If Angeal had heard him, he made no show of it. His eyes remained on the screen.

Jade hadn't bothered to adjust the camera back to its original position, leaving it on Vincent. "I suppose my actions imply that I'm offering you an exchange." He was silent for a moment, fingers rubbing underneath Vincent's chin. "But no. No, I have no intention of giving him up." He laughed again, cruel. "I cherish him."

Sephiroth felt helpless, which humiliated him. He wanted to reach through the screen and rend Jade into a thousand pieces. He wanted to tear him apart until there was nothing left but gore. Something poisonous was awakening in him, something that had been buried a long time ago and left to fester. Something vulnerable, hurt. Something that made him weak.

Jade hadn't stopped talking, tilting Vincent's head back towards him. The red eyes flitted a little before becoming heavy again.

"I can see why you wanted him. Sweet and naïve and stubborn… and quite the little fighter, isn't he? Takes after his mentor. Is that why you saved him? Did he remind you of yourself? Or did you just want to fuck him? Tell me, Sephiroth, did he ever cry when you did it? It makes him feel so wonderful around you."

Angeal was looking at Sephiroth in disbelief. "Seph, what is he…"

Jade had Vincent by the hair suddenly, dragging him up and onto his lap. He pushed his hand underneath Vincent's shirt, palm flat against his stomach, petting. There was a whimper of pain, and then the wet sounds of kissing. Sephiroth could see now that the majority of the bloodstains were between Vincent's thighs. His fury swelled.

"Boggles the mind, really, you leaving him behind so easily after all that effort, but I suppose it worked out well enough for me. After all, one man's trash is another man's treasure."

He moved his hand further up Vincent's body, pulling his shirt with it, revealing prominent ribs and more bruising.

"But let me get to the point," Jade's voice grew serious, all traces of mocking gone. "The world is changing, is going to change, very soon. A shift in power is coming on a scale you cannot even begin to comprehend, one that goes far beyond just Shinra. As for who will attempt to pick up the mantle of that power… well, I can't imagine you will be very pleased to find out. They offered you an exchange yourself, some time ago. You were a fool to even consider it. While I'm disappointed you were never truly given the chance to fall into that little trap, I suppose I should be pleased I didn't train a complete imbecile. But it's of no importance now. The have moved on to a much more ambitious plan of attack, one that means you and your friends are running out of time. I care little for the grand designs of my former compatriots, but I look forward to watching this all play out. Yes, this will be interesting."

There was quiet for a moment, the only sound Vincent's laboured breathing.

"Be careful, Sephiroth."

The camera was moved back up, so Vincent's face could be seen, Jade holding him in place with a strong hand around his jaw. "If I've been speaking to Gast or one of Sephiroth's so-called friends, do pass this message along to him."

He pressed his lips to Vincent's hair. "Is there anything you would like to say to Sephiroth before we go, rabbit? No? At least do him the courtesy of saying goodbye. He didn't do the same for you, but… this is the last time he will see you, I think."

When Vincent didn't speak, Jade's voice grew threatening. "Don't be rude, Vincent. Look at him."

Vincent did look, directly into the camera, and Sephiroth felt something inside himself break. When he spoke, it was barely above a whisper.

"Goodbye, Sephiroth."

The screen went dark.

"Private Valentine."

It was late, almost curfew. Vincent had been walking slowly back to his dorm, head down, gauntlet impossibly heavy on his arm. He didn't know why he even bothered with it anymore. His classmates hated him enough as it was, and his superiors had no interest in wasting their time on specialized training now that he had no connections. The weapon might as well be left to gather dust underneath his bed alongside Cerberus, forgotten and unused in its case. His keycard no longer granted him access to the private training rooms, and there was no one left to train with anyway.

Vincent had experienced grief before. For his father, and his broken body made host to monsters. But this… this made him feel numb. It was like moving through a fog—he could see the shapes of everything that had been there before, but nothing was quite real anymore. Nothing would ever be real again, unless…

It was coming up on six months since everything had fallen apart. Shinra had not only lost its prized general, but another of its highest-ranking Firsts. Vincent had lost his best friend, a trusted teacher, and a mentor… more than a mentor.

Everything had been lies and secrets and rumours for a long time, Shinra scrambling to pick up the pieces, but transparency could not be avoided forever. Order had to be maintained in the wake of such a disaster. The unthinkable was announced, and soon after Director Lazard Deusericus was appointed acting general. The shock at what had seemed impossible settled over Midgar like a collective nightmare.

Vincent had chosen denial at first, refusing to believe that the man who had risked so much to save his life would abandon him so easily, without even a word of goodbye. So he waited. He called the number on his cell phone—the only number—over and over again, but it had been disconnected. The days stretched into months, and with the passage of time the truth became palpable, more and more difficult to deny. In his heart, Vincent began to understand… Sephiroth, the person he cared for the most, was gone. He wasn't coming back.

Vincent had been alone for so long before SOLDIER, but now that loneliness ate away at him. The food would turn cold on his tray as he looked at where Zack should have been. There was nothing to fill the time between classes and scheduled training, so he would retreat to his dorm and sleep to avoid crushing boredom and the smug looks of everyone who hated him. His future with SOLDIER was greying, but there was no future at all anywhere else, so he moved through the days on autopilot.

He couldn't even bring himself to cry.

Vincent looked up when he heard his name. He didn't know this man… he certainly wasn't a First. He was impeccably dressed, almost elegant. His sharp grey suit seemed to imply he was some sort of Shinra professional, but there was something about him that made Vincent doubt that conclusion.

"Sir?"

The man approached him, a little too quickly, and Vincent had to resist the urge to flinch and step back. "You know this part of the base well, yes?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. I have some business in the upper wing of loading bay seven, and as I am unfamiliar with the area beyond the Third Class dorms, you've been assigned to me as my guide. If you would." He gestured for Vincent to move in front of him.

The way he spoke instantly reminded Vincent of Sephiroth, which made his chest ache, although the entire situation sounded wrong. It was dark outside, minutes away from curfew for Vincent, which his superiors must have known. What business did a Shinra suit have at some remote end of base, particularly at this hour, and why would anyone assign Vincent the task of taking him there? Didn't Shinra have people for this sort of thing? It seemed strange that they would send the man after him instead of summoning him from his dorm.

"Um… it's…" Vincent looked around him, biting at his lip. "I…"

"Ah, where are my manners," the man chided himself. He held out a black-gloved hand, which Vincent tentatively shook. His grasp was firm and warm. "I've been acquainted with Shinra for some time. Freelance work, mostly." He smiled, revealing perfect white teeth, and that was warm too. "Never did like being tied down to one specific employer. Still, I'm good at what I do, although clearly not so much as to roll out the red carpet."

He laughed, and it was a deep, pleasant sound. Vincent couldn't help but offer a small smile himself. He was an older man, late forties maybe, and he had a relaxing air about him. Vincent was a bit surprised when he realized he actually found him handsome. He never really thought about that with anyone, barring Sephiroth.

"Your superior… oh, what was his name." He snapped his fingers a few time. "Staff Sergeant Castle? Beast of a man with the haircut of a ninety-year-old woman." Vincent bit back a laugh of his own, and the man's smile broadened. "He said I might catch you on the way back to your dorms. There's no need to worry about curfew if that's your concern."

"Okay," Vincent said, still shy despite how disarming the man was. He hadn't been spoken to by anyone this friendly in months. "Do you have a name, sir?"

"Oh, many. As I said, I get around. But why don't you keep calling me sir? Makes me feel much more important than I am."

"Alright… sir." Vincent felt the blush creeping up towards his face, so he hid behind his hair, embarrassed. "It's this way."

The man fell in beside him, keeping pace just a little back from where Vincent was. "Thank you, private. Much appreciated."

They walked in silence for a while, Vincent cursing his own shyness. He wasn't timid, or he didn't used to be… He just hadn't talked to anyone in so long. His superiors instructed him or gave him orders, and his classmates ignored him. He hadn't seen Cloud in months. It was a small shock to be treated like a person.

"So, um… what work do you do, sir?"

"Oh, this and that. Technical nonsense. Things the Turks might be bothered to take care of if it all weren't so boring." He was right next to Vincent now, shoulder to shoulder. "Takes me all over base, but I can never seem to remember my way around."

Vincent's lips twitched into a half-smile. "It took me a while too."

"How long have you been with SOLDIER?"

"Almost a year," Vincent said, and his heart felt a little heavier again. "Feels like longer… a lot has happened."

The man hummed. "Yes, I imagine it does." He looked down at Vincent. "Why the long face, private," he asked gently.

Vincent chewed on his bottom lip, trying to keep it from quivering. "I'm sorry, sir. It's nothing."

"There's no need to be shy. I'm sure things have been difficult for SOLDIER these past months. It must have seemed unfathomable to you all, to lose your general in such a way."

"Yeah," Vincent breathed, feeling worn down and small. "It wasn't… what I expected."

The man put his hand on Vincent's shoulder—the far one, so Vincent ended up tucked underneath his arm. "It will take time, Private Valentine. Do not lose heart."

He was warm, and Vincent half-consciously moved a little closer to him, the cool night air tingling on his bare arms. The hand stayed where it was, firm and comforting and probably inappropriate, but Vincent couldn't bring himself to refuse the human kindness. He was only ever touched when someone managed to land a hit on him during training. Being touched now, without the intent to harm…

"Thank you, sir," he whispered.

The man smiled at him again, and Vincent returned it, no longer hiding. Most days he felt so tired, as if he were stuck in a mire and it was taking all the strength he had left to not just sink down and let it take him. He felt a little lighter now. He was actually a bit sad they were almost there.

Vincent could see all the trucks lined up in front of the large concrete building across the road. The doors were hanging open on one of them, which was odd. There didn't seem to be anyone around.

He came to a stop in front of a smaller building on their side of the road. "If you go through here and cross the pedestrian overpass, you should end up just below the upper wing." He offered one last smile. "Goodnight, sir."

Vincent tried to turn back, but the man's hand tightened on his shoulder. He was strong, and Vincent winced. "Um… is there something else you needed, sir?"

"I was enjoying our chat. Seems a shame to cut it short." He pulled Vincent towards him and then back, so he was trapped between the wall and the man's larger body. "If all the SOLDIERs were as sweet-looking as you I might come around more often."

Vincent's stomach dropped, and the claws of his gauntlet dug into the building. "I… I need to get back to my dorm, sir. It's past curfew, and—"

"Didn't I tell you already, that you wouldn't get in trouble for that?" He had a piece of Vincent's hair between his fingers, toying with the strands. "Stay."

Any comfort Vincent had felt was rapidly evaporating. "Sir, I can't. I—"

"You flirt with me shamelessly and then try to run away? How unkind." The man moved a little closer, and Vincent's heart stuttered.

"I didn't—I think there's been a misunderstanding."

"You felt good, under my arm," the man mused. The hand that had been playing with his hair stroked its way down to his neck. "You seemed to enjoy it too."

Vincent was beginning to panic. He was scared that hurting the man in a serious attempt to escape would get him in trouble, but all he wanted was to run. "I didn't mean to lead you on. Please, just let me go. I have to—"

The man sighed. "Oh, Vincent… such a lonely, vulnerable boy. No one has shown you kindness in a long time. That made this very easy." He rubbed at Vincent's jaw with his thumb. "Don't misunderstand. This would have happened even if you hadn't come with me. But it was a lovely walk."

Their eyes locked for less than a second, Vincent's dilating rapidly, before he tore himself away from the man, rolling under his arm to avoid being grabbed again. He was back on his feet in an instant, prepared to run as fast as he could back to his dorm, to _anywhere_ where he wasn't alone with this stranger. He barely made it two strides before an iron grip closed around his ankle, pulling his feet out from under him. His jaw struck the pavement with a sickening thud. He tried to get on his hands and knees—tasting blood, seeing it fall from his lips in a disgusting, viscous string—but hands as frighteningly strong as they were fast were dragging him backwards, moving up his legs. He attempted to strike the man with his gauntlet, grasping desperately behind his back, but the man caught it and ripped it off his arm with such violence Vincent thought his shoulder might dislocate. It was thrown off to the side somewhere, and Vincent was flipped onto his back in a movement so deft it made him dizzy. The back of his head cracked against the ground as he was left staring up at his attacker with wide, watery eyes. A large hand forced itself over his nose and mouth so firmly he couldn't breathe, holding him down.

"Don't be difficult. You'll only get yourself hurt, and trust me, there will be plenty of time for that."

Vincent was weakly trying to push him away, one hand on the arm holding him down and the other on the man's face, but the hard body above his felt immovable, impossibly strong. The man just laughed. He mouthed at Vincent's wrist, tongue swiping at the skin as he reached into the pocket of his suit jacket with his free hand. He pulled out a syringe, and Vincent let out a muffled sound of panic. The man hushed him, placing the needle almost tenderly at his neck.

He held Vincent down for several more seconds after it was done, until his vision began to wink in and out as his lungs struggled to take in air. Finally, the hand pulled away. Vincent inhaled desperately, too out of breath to even consider screaming before the man pulled him to his feet by the collar of his shirt. He picked Vincent up easily, one arm encircling his waist to grip his wrist. A gloved hand covered his mouth again. Vincent tried to bite at it, but the man was so strong he could barely open his jaw at all.

He smelled like Sephiroth, Vincent realized, held as tightly against him as he was. Almost minty… almost like cloves. Vincent remembered hating that smell, when Sephiroth had left him crying and alone in a bed saturated with it. He remembered hating himself for loving it when Sephiroth had stayed. But all he could feel now was intense, stomach-curdling nausea. He fought not to gag, suffocated by the wrongness of it all.

"Don't fuss," the man said. He buried his face in Vincent's hair, breathing in. "This part is almost over."

Vincent wanted to struggle, and he did at first, but his limbs were becoming increasingly leaden, more and more difficult to control. The man carried him as if he were a ragdoll, not burdened in the slightest. In his desperation he tried to call on Chaos, a secret he never wanted to tell—not to this man, not to anyone—but nothing happened. Fire flickered briefly in the palm of his hand, and was just as promptly extinguished. Whatever he had been injected with was suppressing his magic. Vincent's heart sank.

The man crossed the street in sure, confident strides—past the dark, empty buildings, towards the truck with the open doors. Vincent's legs gave one last pathetic kick before he was roughly deposited on the floor with his back against the cold, harsh metal. He could barely even lift his head now, let alone move his arms, but he could hear the man closing the doors behind them, trapping Vincent in the dark with a man he did not know, who somehow knew him.

The man turned and looked at him for a long moment. Vincent was beginning to register how much pain he was in, head spinning and mouth coppery. He could feel his legs being kicked apart and knelt between. He could feel hands running down his sides, removing his SOLDIER belt. His armour.

"Please don't do this. Please. I—"

The man smiled, and it looked sinister now, lit only by the glow of Vincent's eyes. "Tell me," he said, voice thick with lust. "Did you ever beg for Sephiroth like that?"

Vincent's heart stopped. "What?"

The man didn't answer, pushing the pauldrons off Vincent's shoulders, sliding the gloves from his hands. He ran his lips over Vincent's wrists before placing them on either side of his head, limp and helpless.

"Who are you?" Vincent whispered.

"An old friend of your beloved mentor."

He curled his fingers under Vincent's collar, and ripped the front of his uniform shirt in two as if it were paper. He didn't bother pulling it from Vincent's arms, instead just pushing it aside to expose his torso. Vincent's breath was coming in stuttered little pants now. The man leaned down and kissed him, slimy and hard, and Vincent finally realized that what he had known was going to happen the entire time was inevitable now. He couldn't move his head away from that awful mouth. He couldn't do anything. Tears fell thick and hot from the corners of his eyes. The man pushed Vincent's hair back to watch.

"That's good, Vincent," he said. "You look very, very good."

"Stop," he pleaded, barely able to force the word out.

The man ignored him, moving down his body to undo his pants. Revulsion rose like bile in Vincent's throat, and the acid burned away any prior attraction he'd felt towards this stranger. The man only bothered to remove one boot, pulling all that remained of Vincent's uniform down over his hips, and then forcing the bootless leg up and out of the garment. He pushed his knees under Vincent's thighs, keeping Vincent's legs up and apart, and unzipped his own pants.

"I'm going to enjoy taking this from him," he said. "I'm going to enjoy taking this from you."

Vincent stared past the man's head as it moved in and out of his vision, his body scraping harshly back and forth over the studded floor of the truck. The wetness in his glowing, Mako eyes made kaleidoscope patterns in the ceiling as he listened to the man above him grunt, forcing Vincent's own breath out of his lungs every time he moved inside him. He wondered if he would ever be with someone who didn't want to hurt him this way. He wondered if he would ever be with Sephiroth again.

It ended, eventually. The man kissed his stomach, then his chest, and then his neck. He squeezed Vincent's jaw until his mouth opened, and slowly and deliberately spat into it. Then the body was gone from his.

The man stood, fastened his pants, and exited the truck, not bothering to close the doors behind him. Vincent thought that perhaps that was it now. That the man had got what he wanted, that he would be left for some grunt to find in the morning. But the man came back, having retrieved the gauntlet from the site of their earlier struggle. He threw it carelessly into the truck next to Vincent.

Vincent wondered if his bunkmates would care when the quiet boy in the corner didn't come home that night. Would his drill sergeants notice his absence and send men to look for him? Would there be a missing persons report, or just a warrant for desertion? If Sephiroth were still here, how long would it have taken him to realize his student was missing?

Would Sephiroth ever even know he was gone?

The man's voice pulled him from his thoughts.

"Now that we know each other in the biblical sense, I suppose I owe you a name."

He was silent for a moment. Vincent could hear his fingers drumming against the metal. There was a breath of amusement, and then he spoke again.

"You can call me Jade."

The doors slammed shut.


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER WARNINGS: Mild gore, referenced child abuse**

* * *

Angeal could feel the rage emanating from the man next to him, such an unusual display of emotion he couldn't help but be distracted from his own shock. Sephiroth was almost _shaking_. He caught sight of the blue glowing from his clenched fists, and barely got out of the way before a streak of energy was sent flying at the wall, cutting cleanly through the metal. There was a sound of anguish, like nothing Angeal had ever heard from him, before Sephiroth drove his fist into it with such force it nearly tore through as well. It was frightening.

He somehow managed to find his voice. "Stop. Sephiroth, _stop_."

Sephiroth turned on him, face distorted with hatred. "Get out."

"No," he said, standing his ground. "I don't understand. Who was that man? Why would he…"

Angeal looked away. He felt sick. He had never really known Vincent as anything other than a student, but had spent enough time with him to know he was benevolent. Good. He had been Zack's friend. Now every lingering memory he had of that promising young SOLDIER—his smile when he performed well during training, his quiet laugh when he was with Zack—was being torn from him, replaced with the heart-rending image of a broken, battered young man. What that man had been doing to him, _was_ doing to him, filled Angeal with a fury of his own.

He wanted to ask Sephiroth so many questions, force the obstinate man to answer, but there was one thing in particular he desperately needed denied. One thing that _had_ to be a lie. He felt foolish even considering it. Still, his voice came out deadly serious.

"Sephiroth, is what he said about you and Vincent true."

The question seemed to sober Sephiroth. The magic pulsing from his hands dimmed and then dissipated, and the raw rage in his eyes faltered. Something unreadable passed over his face. And the abrupt stillness stretched on with no answer.

"Sephiroth," Angeal repeated, stomach turning. "Tell me it isn't true."

Sephiroth's silence answered for him, as did his eyes, which, for the first time in their long friendship, wouldn't meet his own.

"Gods." Angeal couldn't keep the horror from his voice. "How could you? He was your student. He's just a _boy_." He turned away, and then turned back, unable to even pace in his desperation. "Please. Please tell me you didn't…"

Sephiroth's head snapped up. "I did not force myself on him," he hissed.

It was of little comfort to Angeal, still reeling in disbelief over what his friend had done. "When did this happen? For how long did it go on?" Disgust threatened to poison his words. "What were you thinking? You were his mentor, his general. He trusted you. How could you have done this?"

Angeal was stunned, even as he began to realize how little he actually knew about this aspect of Sephiroth's life. It was almost a shock he even had sex, let alone with an underage Third. Let alone with Vincent. Angeal wanted to be furious with him. He wanted to take him by the collar and shake him until he could somehow justify his reprehensible behaviour. Had Vincent…

Had Vincent even been the first?

Sephiroth's walls were back in place, the only evidence of his prior outburst the damage to the room. His outward indifference incensed Angeal.

"Don't you dare shut me out," he threatened. "Not this time."

Sephiroth's voice was emotionless, void. "What would you have me say, Angeal."

That he hadn't done it. That it was a filthy, disgraceful lie from the lips of a monster. That even the thought of laying his hands on his fifteen-year-old student repulsed him as much as it repulsed Angeal. That this man Angeal called _friend_ couldn't possibly be this dishonourable.

He deflected the question. "Who was that man?" he asked coldly, his anger warping his speech.

The door burst open before Sephiroth could answer.

It was Gast. He looked alarmed, somewhat red in the face and out of breath. He stared briefly at the smouldering remains of what used to be a part of the wall, and then at the two Firsts. Sephiroth had turned his back to him, and something about his countenance made Angeal tense.

"What on Gaia happened?"

Angeal hurriedly composed himself, running one hand roughly over his face. He could hear Zack's muffled crying through the open door, and was grateful Genesis had sense enough to keep him away for now, even considering his friend's insensitive manner. He needed time… didn't know how he could possibly find the words to tell him.

Angeal gestured for Gast to close the door behind him. "We need to talk."

"What's the matter?"

"Who has the contact information for this system?"

Gast appeared taken aback by the question. "No one living I'm aware of. It barely even works. Why?"

Angeal looked at Sephiroth for permission to speak of what they'd seen, but Sephiroth wouldn't meet his eyes, staring down Gast with such intensity Angeal wondered if he meant to harm him.

"We just received a transmission from a man who claims to know Sephiroth, who knew he was here. He didn't give his name, and his face was mostly obscured from the shot, but he looked to be in his late forties, early fifties maybe. Light blonde hair, blue eyes, tanned skin. He was wearing a grey, pinstriped suit, and—"

Angeal stopped. Gast had turned white as a sheet, his mouth opening and closing wordlessly. He looked terrified.

Sephiroth finally spoke, approaching him slowly, as if with malicious intent. His pupils were almost slits.

"Did you know he was alive?"

Gast shrank under the murderous gaze of the former general. "No… No! How—how would I? I've heard nothing since I…"

"Since you left," Sephiroth finished. He smiled, and it was enough to make Angeal's blood run cold. "He was still there for some time after you left."

"He… had someone with him," Angeal interrupted, genuinely concerned Sephiroth might actually kill the old man. "Someone we all knew."

Relief couldn't quite overcome the fear and concern on Gast's face. "Who? And what do you mean by… with him."

"Unwillingly," Angeal responded, eyes flicking to Sephiroth. "And his name is Vincent Valentine. SOLDIER Third Class. Sephiroth was his mentor."

"Grimoire's son?" Gast looked shocked, devastated even. "Why? How?"

Angeal frowned. "Grimoire?"

"Grimoire Valentine," Sephiroth said. "Vincent's father, and a colleague of Gast apparently. He died some time ago."

It should have been a perfectly innocuous statement. After all, Angeal knew almost everything about Zack's family. But under the present circumstances Sephiroth's knowledge seemed little more than an unwelcome reminder that he had been intimate with his far-too-young student. Angeal wanted to confront him again, but would not do so with Gast present.

"I can only assume it was done to spite me." Sephiroth's voice was laced with poison. "As for how, I would not presume to know."

There was silence for a moment, and then he spoke again. "Or perhaps it was done simply for the sport of it."

"Sephiroth," Angeal said. "You need to tell me what's going on. Who is he?"

Sephiroth was unexpectedly frank. "He goes by Jade, or at least he did, when I knew him. He was hired to tutor me in combat when I was seven years old. The last I saw of him was shortly before I was sent to Wutai at twelve." He smiled again, and this time it was empty. "He is not a nice man."

Gast had started to cry quietly, and as Angeal looked from one man to the other, realization hit him like a freight train. _Quite the little fighter, isn't he? Takes after his mentor_."

"Seph," he whispered.

Sephiroth raised his palm. "Don't, Angeal."

Angeal felt something like sorrow wash over him.

Sephiroth turned to Gast, his expression almost wistful. "It is truly astounding," he said. "After all this time, he has still managed to find a way to hurt me."

Angeal wanted desperately to say something, _anything_ to Sephiroth, but the man had already brushed past him, stopping only to look at Gast over his shoulder.

"Tell him what you will."

_Sephiroth_. The name felt strange on Vincent's tongue. It was like… it was like the taste of coffee when expecting tea. Not bitter, not really. Just a small shock, achingly familiar and yet foreign, as if he'd never said it before.

Jade hadn't removed him from his lap. His awful hands were all over Vincent's body, still pushing underneath the front of his shirt, crawling up his back. It was painful—Vincent was sure several of his ribs were at least cracked again—but he made no attempt to resist him. Jade did not like to be told he couldn't touch what belonged to him.

Cruel men, be it by allure, manipulation, or force, always got what they wanted.

"Look at me."

Vincent obeyed, no longer faltering under those cold, blue eyes. It wasn't as if he hadn't been forced to look up into them time and again underneath him, for the past…

For the past what? Month? Year? Time was a lost concept to him. His prison had no windows, no sunrises or sunsets. Just room after room of stark white, harshly lit and penetrating. It burned Vincent's Mako-sensitive eyes. It was inescapable, could not be blocked out by his eyelids or his hands or the coarse sheets he buried his face in. More than once, when Jade had him shackled to the bed, trapped on his back with straps around his neck and forehead to keep his face fixed on the ceiling, Vincent had thought he would rather stare into the sun until he was struck blind.

_Please,_ please _turn out the lights._

_And what will you give me in exchange for my kindness?_

_Anything._

_Anything?_

Jade did occasionally relent, but only when Vincent was perfectly obedient. Feigning consent, piteously attempting to convince Jade he wanted him… Vincent was so desperate for that darkness he sometimes believed he did want him. He was being conditioned, and he knew it, but what else could he do? He was terrified of losing his mind. The only thing left that anchored him to the living world, that wasn't false and artificial and _white_, was that loathsome, unwanted flesh.

Vincent knew Jade left sometimes, although he was never sure how frequently or for how long. He knew Jade came back, to rape him, to _play_. He had tried to keep track of it all. The absences, and the violations. But everything had blurred together.

Jade's fingers dug into his waist, and Vincent's couldn't quite stifle his whimper.

"Never make me repeat myself again."

Vincent tried to answer, but his dry throat was thick and sore. He couldn't force the words past his cracked lips. He settled for nodding, hoping his silence wouldn't anger Jade and earn him another beating. He wasn't sure he could survive another so soon after the last.

Maybe being beaten to death wouldn't be so terrible.

His acquiescence seemed to appease Jade. He pulled Vincent closer, mouthed at the side of his jaw just below his ear. Vincent shuddered.

"Did you enjoy our little chat with your mentor?"

Vincent nodded again. He wondered if they had actually been talking to Sephiroth, or if it had all been a ruse, just another game designed to fuck with his head. He wanted it to be. The thought of Sephiroth seeing him like this was devastating. The thought of Jade anywhere near the man whose humanity he had destroyed even more so. Sephiroth had saved him so many times, had done more than enough for him… had done more than enough to him.

It was enough, enough now.

Jade looked amused. "A shame I couldn't see his face… I would have liked that. I wonder if he just stood there with that precious neutral mask, or if the anger seeped into his eyes. He was never as good at hiding that as he thought he was. You're familiar enough with his temper."

Those strong fingers had loosened their grip on his side, just running over the sensitive skin there. "Anger is the best you're going to get from him. There is nothing left in him that can feel sorrow. Not for anyone, and certainly not for you." He wrapped his hand loosely around Vincent's throat. "If I had choked the life out of you and left him your body, all he would have felt was a moment of regret over having wasted so much time." His smile broadened. "As it is… he'll just be angry that he lost. That he has always, and will always, lose."

Vincent didn't look away. He was too tired to cry, and so tired of crying, and it was far from the cruelest thing Jade had ever said to him. He just kept telling himself that the entire conversation hadn't been real.

"Poor rabbit," Jade murmured, releasing Vincent's neck to walk his fingers up it. "Falling in love with such a hateful man. Better to follow his example, and fall in love with me instead."

He toyed with a piece of Vincent's hair, looking into red eyes, dissecting.

"He's never going to come for you, Vincent."

Vincent swallowed, tried again to speak. "I know."

_I know._

Jade pushed him back down onto the couch, body heavy and suffocating on top of him. He bent to kiss him, but Vincent pressed one hand gingerly against his chest.

"Wait."

He forced his entire body to relax, hoping Jade wouldn't take the interruption as resistance. It seemed to work.

"What is it, rabbit?"

"Water. Please."

"You know how to ask."

Vincent let out a trembling breath. The back of Jade's hand was smoothing over his cheek, deceptively gentle. He remembered Sephiroth doing the same, wiping away his tears the night Vincent had learned of his father's murder. He remembered the one time Sephiroth had held him, the coolness of the leather and the warmth of his body. He remembered Sephiroth there beside him, in Wutai, calling him _Vincent_ for the first time.

He had wanted so much to live.

Vincent placed his hands on either side of Jade's face, and pressed their lips together.

Sephiroth had levelled a sizable patch of forest about two kilometers north of the house, and it had done nothing to ease his wrath. Nearly two decades of poison had spilled out of him like vomit, bitter and violent. How long had he dreamt of what he would do if he found Jade alive? How long had he convinced himself he'd become too strong to even care?

How could he have been so blind, to think he could ever escape his past.

The snarl of the last bandersnatch left alive barely distracted him from his thoughts. The rest of the pack lay scattered around them, beheaded or bisected or eviscerated. And still the doomed beast faced him. Mindless until the very end. It met the same fate as all the others. Masamune was thrust into its stinking mouth when it pounced, and as soon as the sword emerged through its belly, Sephiroth pulled it back, slitting the creature open from abdomen to jaw. It was thrown several meters away, insides spilling over the ground until a gruesome path was formed between Sephiroth and the body.

He approached his kill, paying no mind to the mess, the crunch of the snow turning to a squish as blood seeped out from under his boots. One disgusting sole was placed on the beast's head, and pressed down until the skull cracked, squelching and distorting what was left of the face. Sharp, canine teeth pierced through the split tongue only somewhat attached to its bloodied mouth. It was foul, and it was perfect.

But it wasn't enough. Hadn't been for months. Sephiroth had long grown tired of wild game, barely enough to keep him satiated through a year of boredom, frustration, and helplessness. He wanted human bone under his boot, and he wanted it to be Jade's.

He had been blindsided by it. By all of it. What he thought had meant nothing to him anymore was now a gaping wound. It made him burn with humiliation, even as it pumped out pulse after pulse of ice from his core down through his limbs. In a single, ruthless strike, Jade had cracked the walls Sephiroth had spent his entire life reinforcing. And now it all threatened to crumble away, exposing that hurt little boy from so long ago.

He had been foolish to think he could ever be free of Jade, in whatever form. He was always there, making Sephiroth weak and heartless at the same time, breaking him over and over again in his dreams. The man had spent years burning himself into Sephiroth, and when he was done he'd made a perfect killer. A monster.

But that first taste of freedom, of absolute control on the battlefields of Wutai, had changed Sephiroth. Numbed him to everything that had come before. He'd never gone back to his childhood labs after that, and as the years passed without so much as a whisper of Jade, so had any semblance of power he'd once had over him.

Hojo's labs. Sephiroth felt stupid, sick. Hojo maintaining a _friendship_ with Jade was as disgusting as it was obvious. And Sephiroth had been willingly ignorant of the possibility, and far too careless in his purging of the labs following Hojo's death. Jade would have seen it all, if he didn't just torture the information out of Renault. He would have seen Sephiroth murder Hojo for a boy. He would have seen Chaos.

He might have made an educated guess regarding the nature of Sephiroth's relationship with Vincent based on all that—Sephiroth's vengeance, and his caring—or forced the truth out of Vincent post-abduction, but something told him things had gone much further than that. It was nauseating, to think the man had been dogging their every step, watching them together. Watching Vincent.

Had it all been calculated? Or had Jade simply sauntered into an opportunity to hurt him, and taken it? Or had he seen Vincent, the boy who was so much like Sephiroth and so different, and wanted him for himself. Just as Sephiroth had.

He had told himself once that his selfish lust, his casual entitlement, would cost Vincent so much more than it ever could him. But he could never have imagined it would cost him this much.

Sephiroth had failed Vincent in every way, from the very beginning. He had never protected him as he should have, as a SOLDIER or a student or whatever they had been. It was his fault. All of it. Letting a Third be bullied and abused by an incompetent teacher, not personally overseeing the dispatching of troupes to war-torn Wutai… He'd put him in the path of Genesis' ire. Delivered him, _giftwrapped_, onto Hojo's operating table. Been so _stupid_ as to be compromised by a wretched little insect, forcing him to splice Vincent with a demonic entity just to keep his twisted promise.

And then, after everything he'd been put through, Sephiroth had used him. Selfishly and cruelly, feeding on his loneliness and affections. Convincing himself he was doing it for Vincent's sake. For all his desire to preserve that precious vulnerability in him—let someone else destroy it, let them die trying—it was Sephiroth himself who had done the most damage, with manipulation and callous remarks, at one point even physical violence. It haunted him now, to think he had ever dared to wrap his hand around that pale neck with the intent to harm.

And now what had Sephiroth condemned him to? To be Jade's plaything until sickness or brutality took him? To be raped and abused until there was nothing left of him that had known good? For all Sephiroth had been put through, he had been—in a warped sort of way—safe. Things had been expected for him. Hojo's concern for his wellbeing might have been nearly non-existent, but he would never have allowed him to be killed, crippled, or even disfigured.

Vincent had no such value. He could be tortured to death, and no one would ever even know. He would die, alone, thinking he meant nothing.

He meant something to Sephiroth, and a year of forced indifference had done nothing to change that. He had never been neutral when it came to Vincent. Not then, when he had pretended he was as disposable as everyone else, and not now. Vincent had been different the moment Sephiroth had lifted him from the wreckage. There was something there, underneath every claim of impossibility. Something Sephiroth would not name.

The wind was bitter, stinging exposed flesh and drying the blood spattered over it. Sephiroth did nothing to shield himself.

He should have let Vincent die in Wutai.

He should have stayed with him and stroked his hair, taken away every bit of his pain until he was at peace. Safe from Jade and Hojo and Chaos. Safe from everything Sephiroth was going to do to him.

Instead he'd guided him into the hands of the two men he hated most.

For all his lies, Jade had likely been telling the truth—Vincent had been with him for months. Many months. It wasn't just the rail-thin body and the longer hair and the overwhelming evidence of abuse. It was the _exhaustion_. He might have been drugged, but there was so little fight left in him, something Vincent had never lacked. Those hollow eyes spoke of nothing but resignation, barely even possessing the capacity for sorrow. And when he'd spoken it had been a genuine farewell. He truly believed no one was coming for him.

What had Sephiroth done to make him think any different.

Maybe that was why Jade had waited so long to do it, so Sephiroth could see just how broken Vincent was. To rub as much salt into the wound as possible. Sephiroth wondered how grateful he should be Jade didn't just rape Vincent in front of him, and slit his throat before it was over.

Maybe his desire for Vincent was genuine, and he had no plans of disposing of him just yet. Maybe the primary purpose of the call _was_ to warn them.

Sephiroth hadn't been giving the warning much thought, whether it was the general absurdity of the claim or his focus on Vincent. Even now he was loath to waste time on it. The man was as much a manipulative liar as he was a killer, and even if there were truth to it… it would take a colossal effort to depose Shinra, and what was another middling war to Sephiroth anyway. Let it happen. Let them burn.

He had already made his decision.

He was going to get Vincent, _his_ Vincent, back.

"I only met him once," Gast said, wiping the tears from his glasses with a handkerchief. "When he was very small. He was so much like his father… bright, and kind. It grieved me to learn of Grimoire's death. I wondered more than once what became of his son. I never imagined he would end up in SOLDIER, of all things, or that he would come to know Sephiroth, of all people…"

They hadn't spoken about Sephiroth's past for long, Angeal choosing instead to recount the contents of the transmission. It felt wrong, too much like he was betraying him. What he'd learned in that dusty, cramped room was not something he should ever have known. Not without consent, and maybe not even then. He wouldn't tell Zack, or Genesis, although the latter would be more difficult to placate.

He shared in Sephiroth's resentment towards Gast, in his own way. To abandon a child to that degree of abuse seemed unfathomable. How could Gast stand there and claim to have cared about him? How could he ever justify having done it? But all it had taken was one look at him to know that something was very, very wrong. Angeal had never seen fear like that, not even at the end of his sword. As the conversation went on, it became more and more clear there was nothing that could have been done. This man, this Jade, was a tyrant. Sadistic, Gast had said, impossibly intelligent and strong. Had Gast attempted to take Sephiroth, gone against him and Hojo in any way, he would be dead, and Sephiroth would have paid the price.

And now he had Vincent. And talking about that felt just as wrong.

"You knew Jade…" Angeal began, but Gast interrupted him.

"I didn't know him. No one can know a man like him, and I certainly didn't try to." He attempted to put his glasses back on, but they slipped down his nose, so he went back to rubbing at them, warping the wire with his tense fingers. "I wasn't involved in that aspect of Sephiroth's upbringing. Barely involved with any of it by then. He…" Gast cleared his throat a few times, which did nothing to stop it from wavering. "He wouldn't confide in me anymore. Lost all interest in books and learning. That man had him from day one, long before the violence, and I didn't exactly take tea with him and Hojo to find out what I was missing."

"But you knew he was abusing Sephiroth."

Gast huffed, and it was a strangled, weary sound. "You would have been blind not to, when he came out of every session smelling of sweat and—" He cut himself off. Forced some measure of composure, even though his voice continued to tremble. "And every time he left he took a little more of Sephiroth with him."

Angeal let out a heavy breath, looking at the blank screen. "Do you think he took Vincent to hurt him?"

"I don't know," Gast replied honestly. "It certainly wouldn't be beyond him, but… something about what you've told me doesn't feel right."

"How so?"

"His whole way of going about it seems strange. I _don't_ know him, but… if it were just to hurt Sephiroth, and your guess of when Vincent was taken is true… I wonder why he took so long to do it, or why he didn't just take it to the extreme and murder him in front of you. _Or_ why he didn't do something similar with you and Genesis a long time ago. I don't mean to insult you, Angeal, but I'm not at all confident you would come out the victor in one-on-one combat with him. And you've been Sephiroth's closest friend for over a decade."

Angeal kept his mouth shut about the difference between him and Vincent.

"If it were… lust," Gast continued, "or simple curiosity, I can't help but feel as if it would be over and done with by now. Jade hasn't bothered with Sephiroth since before the war, as far as I know. Why now?"

Angeal considered what had been said. "The mentorship was not well-known, and it was short. There were things he knew that were… confidential, between Sephiroth and Vincent. And he knows where we are now, even with everything we've done to hide it." He looked down at Gast, serious. "To me, that sounds like something very close to stalking."

"Yes," Gast said, sorrow creeping over every line of his aged face. "Yes, you're right. And it's likely his connections with Shinra ran much deeper than Hojo. Still… I can't shake the feeling there is more to this than just Sephiroth."

"You don't think it's possible his intent was always to hurt him, and Vincent just turned out to be more convenient than Genesis and I were in the past? And that he… _liked_ him enough to take his time?"

"Maybe." Gast exhaled, and his entire body seemed to sag. "Maybe… Or maybe speculating on his motives is an exercise in futility, and Sephiroth was right that it was nothing more than sport. Jade was never a man who needed a reason." He tried to put his glasses on again, finally giving up. "There was really nothing he said that implied an exchange? Or even entrapment?"

Angeal shook his head. "He just went on about how much he wanted to keep him. Gave us nothing that even remotely resembled a hint towards some sort of action. Except…"

"What is it?"

"Before he ended the transmission, he said something about a shift in power, on a massive scale. An attack that goes beyond Shinra. Something that would change the world." Angeal frowned. "He told Sephiroth to be careful. Any speculation on that?"

"None at all," Gast said, although his voice came out confused and worried. "Only that psychopaths are imaginative and effective liars. Maybe it was a ploy to appear nonchalant about Vincent. Or to upset Sephiroth's focus on you two."

"Hm."

"Better to discuss it when he gets back. That, and leaving this place as soon as possible."

Angeal swallowed down the lump threatening to rise up his throat. "Gast," he said, already knowing what the answer would be. "Is there anything we can do?

Gast met his eyes, looking every bit the broken, old man he was, worn down from years of defeat.

"No," he said at last. "There is nothing you could offer him, if Vincent is what he wants, and nothing you can do he hasn't already thought of. I can't see him letting anyone go, when death is the preferred option. All we can do now is pray it ends quickly, and hope he finds peace with his father."

Angeal put his head in his hands. He wondered if Vincent's death would take the last bit of Sephiroth's humanity with it.

"I am truly sorry," Gast said, barely above a whisper, "for your loss."

Logically, Angeal knew they couldn't possibly have accounted for this. But guilt weighed heavily on his soul. Guilt, and anger. "It was wrong to leave him behind, knowing what we did about Shinra. He wasn't just another SOLDIER. Not to me, or Zack, or…" He looked at the dent Sephiroth's fist had made in the wall. "We failed him. _Sephiroth_ failed him."

Gast seemed surprised by the contempt that came with the name. "Angeal… this is no one's fault but—"

He visibly jumped when the door slammed open. Zack strode into the room, directly followed by a furious-looking Genesis with a bloodied lip. In any other circumstance, Angeal might have been impressed he'd actually managed to land a hit on him.

Zack's voice was hoarse, more desperate than demanding. "What happened? Where's Sephiroth?"

"I tried to stop him," Genesis spat, rubbing at his jaw. "You might as well just tell us."

Angeal couldn't stand the way Zack was looking at him. There was despair there, but also a sort of naïve hopefulness that made his heart sink. For the first time since he'd taken him under his wing, Angeal wished he could lie to him. After everything Zack had been put through… but he'd seen the gauntlet. What other interpretation was there.

"Sit down, Zack."

"No," he said, defiant in spite of the tears still pooling in his eyes. "Not until you tell me what's going on."

"There are things you are not entitled to," Angeal said seriously. "And the things you are will hurt you. We should speak alone."

Zack let out a frustrated noise from deep inside his chest. "No. Stop stalling. Just tell me."

Genesis had blocked the door, clearly unwilling to be kept in the dark any longer, and Angeal didn't have the energy to deny them both.

"Now is not the time for insensitivity," he said to Genesis. "Whatever you feel, or don't feel, keep it to yourself."

He waited for Genesis to give a curt nod, and then turned back to Zack. "The man you saw trained Sephiroth in combat before he joined SOLDIER, and as far as I know has not been a part of his life since. None of us know why or how this call was made." A half-lie, but anything more was imprudent. "Sephiroth and I are as shocked and confused as you will be, but…" He put his hand on Zack's shoulder, out of concern as much as to stop him from doing anything rash. "I'm so sorry, Zack. He has Vincent."

Zack stared at him, and Angeal felt as he began to tremble. "What do you… what do you mean he _has_ him?"

"I mean Vincent is not there willingly."

Zack looked as if Angeal had betrayed him. "No. _No_. Why would… He can't have him. He _can't_." He backed away from Angeal, devastation truly setting in. "He's lying."

"I saw him, Zack."

"No, you didn't." Zack was starting to sound frantic, looking around the room helplessly. "Because that doesn't make any sense. Why would anyone… Vincent would never do anything for someone to—"

"I don't think this is about Vincent."

Angeal reached for him again, but Zack pushed his hand away. "Don't touch—then who the hell is it about? Sephiroth? What did Sephiroth do to him to make him take Vincent? He was just his student."

Again, Angeal kept his mouth shut. "I don't know."

Zack was almost angry now, caught between denial and panic. "But… he has to want something, right? Why would he just… _randomly_ contact Sephiroth if he doesn't want something? We give him what he wants and he lets Vincent go."

"He doesn't want anything, Zack."

Zack stopped moving. "What?"

"He didn't offer anything, or ask for anything in return."

A few tears finally escaped Zack's watery eyes. "Why then," he whispered. "Why? What good is Vincent to him?"

Angeal couldn't bring himself to speak, and made the mistake of looking away. He paid dearly for it.

"What is he doing to him."

"No. Don't do this to yourself."

Zack thrust a lamp against the wall in an uncharacteristic fit of violence, shattering it. "What is he doing to him?" he screamed, approaching Angeal so rapidly that had he been a stranger, Angeal might have stepped back.

He closed the distance instead, pulling Zack into a rough embrace, one strong arm around his shoulders. He pushed his other hand through spiky, black hair, and held him close. Zack sobbed into his neck, hands in fists against his chest.

"It's not your fault. It's not. There's nothing you could have done."

Zack shook his head. "We left him. We left him behind knowing what Shinra is. We didn't even tell him we were leaving. We left him all alone and now he's…"

He didn't finish. Angeal held him a little tighter.

"What now," Genesis asked. There was a strange quality to his deadpan tone, and flickers of… something in his eyes.

"We wait for Sephiroth to get back," Angeal said. "And then we relocate. No one should have known we were here."

Genesis furrowed his brow. "Is he a threat to us?"

"Yes." The conversation had taken a further toll on Gast, and he looked as if he might give up and die at any moment. "Nothing about him is normal. I wouldn't risk the assumption that age has changed that."

"Even if it had," Angeal added, "he has information that can be used against us. It's not a chance I'm willing to take."

Zack pulled out of his arms. "But… what about Vincent?"

"Zack…"

"Stop fucking saying my name like that," he spat out. "We're not leaving him again."

"There's nothing that can be done," Gast said quietly. "Sephiroth knows it as well as I do. I would do anything to change it if I could." He covered his eyes, turning away. "Grimoire's son deserved so much better."

"Bullshit," Zack growled. "_Bullshit_. Sephiroth wouldn't just…" His words tapered off, and then he sank into a crouch. He put his head in his arms, and wept.

Angeal knelt beside him, putting a hand on his back. Zack's lack of a reaction was somehow even worse than his anger.

Genesis just stood in the doorway, arms crossed and head down. "What state is Sephiroth going to be in when he gets back."

The sound of a door opening violently enough to strike the wall with a resounding bang answered the question well enough. Genesis backed into the room, and Sephiroth entered shortly thereafter, Masamune dripping blood.

"I'm going to find them," he said, and there was no room in his words for dissent. "I'm going to find them, I'm going to kill him, and I'm going to take Vincent back."

But he was never given the chance. Not even a week later, the world fell apart. Jade had been telling the truth.

The Weapons were waking up.


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER WARNINGS: Graphic sexualized violence, gore, murder (dream sequence)**

* * *

Sephiroth stirred when he felt the feather-light press of lips against his own, and the warmth of a body that hadn't been there before. It should have jarred him, but the kiss was so familiar, the mouth so gentle as it moved over every curve of his lips. He felt… safe, and at peace.

Had he ever felt truly safe before? It seemed such an unwise thing. But all concern was lost to the pleasant haze clouding his mind and permeating every inch of his small room. It was his room, wasn't it? Something about the bed seemed off. The mattress was unforgiving, even for him—stiff and plastic—and the sheets scratched at his skin regardless of how still he lay, harsh like sandpaper. Still, he couldn't recall ever feeling quite so comfortable.

Sephiroth touched without sight, finding a slim shoulder, smooth and naked. He moved his hand further down, over the subtle ridges of prominent ribs and sharp hips, eyes still closed, taking his time. Down a thigh and up again, back into the waist. He pinched lightly, toying with the flesh, such soft skin over such hard bone. The lips trembled, breathed a little gasp into his mouth, and pulled away.

Sephiroth tried to chase them, but was met with nothing but air. He could feel the body slipping out from under his hand. A chill settled over him. Something was dragging it away from him. No… someone. And not just from him. Warmth was being sucked from the room as if the air had split open, into a gaping, black maw prepared to swallow that body into nothingness, as if it had never been there at all.

Anger pierced the fog. Sephiroth lunged. He caught the body around the waist, fingers gripping too tightly, pressing too harshly into those defined ribs. He forced it against him and then under him, easily manhandling it into vulnerability, blind with fury.

And then there were soft hands on him. They moved up his neck to stroke his face, several fingers slipping behind his ears and into his hair, making him shiver. A forehead was pressed against his own, and then a mouth. He felt his chest constrict with affection, aggression bleeding out of him as quickly as it had come. This body… this person. They were here with him. They were safe.

Sephiroth opened his eyes.

_I know you._

He touched the young man's face, resting his thumb against a pale cheek as he traced the edge of an ear with his fingertips. Not just a body. Sephiroth wanted to kiss him again—his hair, his eyelids. He couldn't make sense of the desire to be so tender with him. It wasn't in him. Not for this boy. Not for anyone. The thought alone should have incensed him. But something was urging him not to hurt this one, even as he began to ache with lust, watching lips part and remarkable eyes gaze up at him in adoration. No, Sephiroth didn't want to hurt him. He knew him. He _knew_ him.

Sephiroth was so enraptured with the strange boy spirited into his bed, that he utterly failed to grasp the wrongness of it all, his hands moving blindly over stark white sheets spotted red.

He gave in to temptation, easily covering the young man's mouth with his own, which opened to him without resistance. _Yes._ Sephiroth wrapped a greedy arm around that slender waist, coercing the young man into arching up against him. This time, he left his lips flushed red before moving fervently across his cheek and down his jaw—wet, sucking kisses. He pressed his lips to a frantic pulse, rabbit-like. The young man squirmed, writhing against him in a horribly enticing way. Sephiroth wasn't sure if he was trying to escape him or roll up into him, but found himself too possessive to entertain any attempts at escape. His arm became a vise around the young man as he kissed back up his neck and over his chin, pausing to listen to his desperate little intakes of breath before taking his mouth again.

The young man tilted his head to the side so Sephiroth could deepen the kiss, one thin-fingered hand hesitantly touching Sephiroth's chest. Sephiroth whispered approval against his lips. _That's it, little rabbit. Perfect boy._ The surrender only made him more aggressive, more insistent in his seduction. He let his knees support his full weight so he could take the young man by the hip and work that lithe body even harder against his own. The young man was responding beautifully, gripping the back of Sephiroth's neck so he could keep their mouths pressed together, kissing back enthusiastically as he let out soft sounds of pleasure. But it wasn't enough, and Sephiroth was losing patience. When he wanted something, he wanted all of it.

He dug his thumbs into the back of the young man's knees, forcing his legs against his chest, manipulating him into a position only meant for one thing. And then—

And then the strangest thing happened. There was a whimper of protest against his mouth. The young man was attempting to move his legs back down, pushing Sephiroth away with his hands. Unbelievably, he broke the kiss. Confused, Sephiroth tried again, more forcefully. Again he was resisted, the young man struggling to move upwards and out from under the larger body. _No?_

Sephiroth let the word sit heavy in his mind for only a moment, and then grabbed his prey by the waist and pulled him back so violently their flesh met with an audible slap. The young man immediately stopped struggling, folding his thin arms tightly over his own chest as if to hide from him. Sephiroth leaned down to kiss him, but he turned his head away.

Fury flooded his veins, the intoxicating haze that had so easily ensnared him dissipating in an instant. No one said no to him. _No one_. What right did the young man have to refuse him? How stupid could this boy be, how _impudent_, to think he could trifle with a murderer? There were consequences for resistance. Someone had told him that once, someone who also took what he wanted. Sephiroth felt entitled to the young man, and if he needed to be taught a lesson to understand that, then so be it.

Sephiroth backhanded him hard, taking no small pleasure in watching that pretty face distort in pain. He was a brutal man; a blow delivered with half the force should have been more than enough to bring the young man to heel. It should have had him begging Sephiroth for forgiveness while he spread his legs like a dutiful little bitch. And Sephiroth, merciful god that he was, would have granted it. But the young man just took the abuse with a grim sort of resignation, not at all the reaction Sephiroth had hoped for. It was almost insulting, that the boy would prefer violence to being with him. So he struck him again, and then again, and again, until the young man began to cry. But Sephiroth's cruelty won him little more than a bruised, tear-streaked face that wouldn't even look at him. _Stupid boy, do you want it harder?_

Sephiroth moved to hit him again, but was unable to bring his hand down. Something was holding onto his wrist. Crushing and icy cold, and invisible but for the indents in his flesh. Then the pressure lessened, and ghosted intimately up the back of his hand until it encompassed each finger. There were whispers in his head now, a single malevolent voice coming at him from all sides. He tried to grasp at it as it slithered around the periphery of his mind, just out of reach. Distracted, he was pliant to the force that moved his hand downwards, unseen puppet master curling Sephiroth's fingers one by one around a slender throat before withdrawing.

The young man froze, tearful acceptance turning to surprise as he stared up at Sephiroth as if he were only just now truly seeing him. Sephiroth considered him for a moment, relaxing his fingers, adjusting his grip. He squeezed experimentally, listening as the young man choked a little, feeling the contractions against his palm. If felt familiar, doing this to him. It felt right.

Sephiroth increased the pressure, leaning down so he could look at the young man more intently. There was an expression of disbelief on that sweet face, strange eyes edged with panic. Sephiroth smiled. The young man opened his mouth as if to say something, but Sephiroth pressed even harder, cutting off his speech. His lower lip wobbled. It was such a pitiful sight Sephiroth laughed. _Now you want to beg, you little cunt_?

It was quickly becoming more than just a cruel game, a lesson learned. Already the young man's thin frame was beginning to jump off the bed in a curious little dance, inadvertently bringing his lower body in contact with Sephiroth's. It reignited his lust in an instant. Sephiroth couldn't quite decide what to do with his other hand. He could use it in tandem with the one already around the young man's throat, or he could use it to satisfy himself. He contemplated how wonderful it would feel to push inside him as he struggled to breathe, what effect the constriction would have on his body. If it would feel anything like the spasming windpipe Sephiroth could so easily crush beneath his palm.

_Do it. Do it, Sephiroth. Do it, little one_.

The voice washed over his ears like hot breath, equal parts alluring and repulsive. He wanted to, so badly... but something in the back of his mind was twisting painfully, dampening his pleasure. Sephiroth tried to focus on the vulnerable, unwilling flesh in his hand, how powerful it made him feel, but that desperate, writhing thing was clawing at his insides, rising in his gorge like nausea. It was trying to push the intruder out. Sephiroth faltered, stunned by its ferocity. His grip slackened.

_But don't you love me, Sephiroth_?

The young man was still pinned to the bed by the hand around his neck, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he took in what little air he could. His lips were pale and trembling, and there were strands of hair stuck to the wetness on his cheeks. Sephiroth pushed them away. Watery eyes looked up at him, a few blinks enough to push out two more tears. Sephiroth watched them disappear into glossy, black hair.

The whispers had been forced from his head, but still licked at his ears, seductive and deafening. And that thing inside, that wretched, screaming thing… it was somehow so quiet in comparison, even as it continued to twist in his throat and his mouth and his brain. Sephiroth knew war so intimately, but did not know what part he was meant to play in this one… if he should side with the voice that spoke so indulgently to his most sadistic desires, or the force that sought to suppress them.

Maybe he was nothing more than a battlefield.

The young man reached up with one hand, hesitating—once, twice—before touching Sephiroth's cheek. Sephiroth could feel how badly it shook. He let his free hand close around the young man's wrist to steady it, avoiding the eyes that searched his face, confused and afraid. He held it a little closer. The young man's fingers uncurled, palm flat against him. It seemed to chase away the whispers, ease that terrible twisting inside. Something in Sephiroth let down its guard. For a moment, he wanted nothing more than to rest his head there, in that pale hand, those gentle fingers. But then he looked down at him.

Sephiroth could see it in his eyes, how wide they were. How the gentle slope of his eyebrows softened his face.

Hope.

There was hope there. The hope that pain, like all things, had its end. The hope that cruel men could change. The foolish presumption that hurt could be undone and evil unlearned. And it was there, in that single, benign expression, that Sephiroth saw it: a perfect reflection of the child he used to be.

The young man's wrist made a terrible crunching sound when it snapped.

He didn't scream. He needed air to scream, and Sephiroth had cut off his lungs the instant bone had surrendered to the strength of a SOLDIER First Class. Jagged and splintered, it pierced through the young man's skin and cut Sephiroth's palm. He tossed the arm carelessly to the side, wrist bent at a gruesome angle and fingers twitching helplessly, and returned to his task with renewed fervor, caught somewhere between hatred and lust.

Sephiroth didn't need the help of his unseen ally to defeat what was inside. He did it himself, forcing it further and further down until it was lost to a place where there was nothing to scream at but the black. It would scream and scream until it couldn't scream anymore, and then it would whimper, and then it would die. Another corpse in the mass grave that had lain to rest every other part of Sephiroth that had known mercy.

Don't hurt him. You didn't want to hurt him.

Sephiroth had both hands around his neck now, smearing it with blood. The young man dug into one of them, leaving behind little, red, crescent moons as he scrabbled up Sephiroth's arm with his uninjured hand, and in a final, desperate attempt to save his own life, raked his nails down Sephiroth's face, hooking two fingers in his mouth. Sephiroth bit them off, teeth cleaving cleanly through the joints, and spat them out onto the bed. Blood spurted from the stumps, coating Sephiroth's lips, before the hand fell away. The young man stopped fighting.

His image rippled and swayed, and Sephiroth thought for a moment that he might have got blood in his eyes. He shook his head, blinking furiously, but nothing changed. And then he watched, fascinated, as bruises rose to the surface of the young man's pale skin like oil from water, in places Sephiroth hadn't beaten him. Flesh sunk into the dips and hollows of his body until his ribcage bulged, and his short, black hair slithered and grew, as if Sephiroth had spilled a bottle of ink over the sheets.

Every part of him was dying.

Sephiroth's chest swelled with pleasure. This felt so much better than fucking. Murder was so clean-cut, so _simple_. There was no room for misinterpretation, no inconvenient aftermath. No time wasted manipulating stupid little boys into believing the act was about anything other than Sephiroth's gratification.

It would all be over soon. Sephiroth was reaching that state of euphoria that blinded him to all but the transcendent rapture of ending a life. He could hear the young man's heartbeat, _feel_ it, frantic and deafening. And then quieter, replaced by a ringing in Sephiroth's ears that grew louder and louder. The image of that broken little wraith was fading, too, blurring into a warm, white light.

_Yes_.

Then there was nothing. Sephiroth came back to himself in pieces. Everything warm and good had fled the room, leaving behind only stillness and all-encompassing silence. There were no more whispers, no more screams. There was nothing at all. Sephiroth just sat on his knees, staring at the white wall behind the head of the bed, until his ears picked up a faint gurgling.

The wraith was gone, replaced again by the pretty young man Sephiroth had wanted so badly to possess. He lay unmoving, his eyes half-closed, although his eyelashes were so thick and black there was little to be seen of them at all. His neck looked horribly wrong—bent somehow, dark and mottled and stretched out.

Sephiroth ran a thumb over his delicately parted lips. Still so warm. Blood was bubbling up from his throat and pooling in his mouth, enough to trickle from the corners. Sephiroth resisted the urge to kiss him again.

He looked at him for a long time. Cradled his cold, ruined hands in his own, toyed with his severed fingers. He folded the young man's arms over his stomach and laced what fingers he had left together, straightening his head and legs as if he were lying in a coffin. The young man looked perfect—a perfect little cadaver, all the more beautiful surrounded by the evidence of the brutal act forced upon it, one that really ought to be preserved if for that beauty alone. He pushed the young man's hair back, and kissed his forehead.

_That's a good boy._

But then, finally, Sephiroth truly looked beyond what he'd done. And in an instant, everything turned wrong.

This was not his room.

He could tell it wasn't a large space, but the blindingly white walls—which on closer inspection were spattered with old, faded marks—stainless steel flooring, and high ceilings made it seem so much bigger than it was, and Sephiroth was now distinctly aware of the haunting little echoes that accompanied his every movement. Adding to the overwhelming sense of emptiness were the sparse furnishings. The single bed he knelt on was bolted to the floor, and four heavy shackles hung from its corners. A short distance from the bed was a horribly uncomfortable-looking chair, similarly fastened down and fixed with cuffs for wrists and ankles, and hanging from the wall was a longer chain attached to a particularly cruel-looking iron collar.

And then there was the enormous mirror next to the sliding, mechanical door, built into the wall like a window. Sephiroth was positioned too low to see his reflection in it, still hovering over the dead boy, but the thought of it filled him with dread.

He stared at the floor as he carefully detached himself from the body on the bed, the metal painfully cold against his bare feet. Slowly, he walked towards it, grasping at the chair with blood-slicked hands, stumbling forwards until he could feel its smooth, glass surface against his palm. With ice in his limbs and his heart in his throat, he looked up.

Smiling back at him was not his own wicked, self-satisfied face, but Jade's.


	4. Chapter 4

**IMPORTANT: **This is the last chapter I'm going to post on FFN. I initially crossposted in an attempt to get more readers (which didn't really work, but oh well, this is about as niche as it gets), but I've realized that the effort of editing this to conform to the TOS is just not worth it, nor really possible without thoroughly mutilating the story. I already broke TOS with chapter 3, and the fic as a whole absolutely shatters it in pretty much every way. It is a graphically violent, explicitly sexual, adult work, and it will continue to be graphically violent, explicitly sexual, and adult for the remainder of its run. There's a good chance it would slip under the radar just as CBND did, but I can't really be bothered to take that chance. It belongs on AO3, so it will be updated there exclusively.

* * *

"Sephiroth? Sephiroth, are you awake?"

It didn't take Sephiroth long to collect himself, or to realize that the repetitive thumping assaulting his sensitive ears wasn't just his own pounding heartbeat. The voice coming from outside his door, muffled and familiar, was blessedly sobering. Gradually the adrenaline bled from his veins, until he was left with only a dull ache in his temples and a sickness in his stomach, which he quickly swallowed down, loath to even acknowledge such a reaction.

He had bolted upright the instant his mind had come back to him, his right hand raised and poised to attack, a sphere of energy swirling in his palm. The sharp blue light aggravated the throbbing in his head, threatening to bring on a real migraine. With a flex of his fingers he dismissed it, immersing the small room in darkness, the near black only disturbed by the warm glow dancing just below the heavy iron door.

Three more thumps. "Sephiroth?"

He sighed heavily, in both mild annoyance, and twisted relief. "A moment, Angeal."

He disentangled himself from the furs—sticky, slick with sweat—that served as the only coverings on his makeshift bed: epiolnis feathers stuffed and bound in hide on a thick slab of stone. A spark of flame from his fingertips, and an oil lamp was lit, bathing the room in soft light. There wasn't much to it. There was the bed, of course, as well as a small desk and chair. Several hooks had been driven into the bare rock of the wall on which to hang clothing, and a hollow carved into it to use as a shelf, although there was nothing on it save a single pair of black leather gloves and a hairbrush. On the desk there was an old-fashioned clock, which Sephiroth rarely bothered to wind, and some writing implements, and against it a certain famous sword, but other than that the space was devoid of anything personal, just a damp little cave in which to sleep.

Sephiroth allowed himself to sit back down for a moment, taking several disgusting mouthfuls of stale, metallic-tasting water from the large canteen he kept next to his bed.

He didn't fight back the self-hatred this time.

What right did he have to feel relieved? What on Gaia was there to be relieved about? That Vincent was dead? That Sephiroth himself hadn't done it?

As if he could ever wash his hands of the part he'd played in it, in all of it.

Sephiroth rubbed his hands roughly over his face. Grief was such a hollow, aimless thing. A thing meant for lesser men. There were days when it was easily ignored, lost in the heat of battle and buried under the satisfaction of a kill, and other days when it took all of his will just to beat it down. But it was always there, inside him. A writhing amalgam of guilt and failure, of hatred for Jade, and resentment for… for Vincent. Vincent, whom Sephiroth had wronged so deeply, who had died under the weight of Sephiroth's sins, now made to shoulder the blame for Sephiroth's weakness. Vincent, whose memory deserved so much more than bitterness.

But it was enough now. Vincent needed to be forgotten, just as all the other tragedies of Sephiroth's life had been. He needed to leave Sephiroth in peace, before that grief took Sephiroth resentment and blackened it into hatred for the boy who never should have meant this much.

Sephiroth pulled on his pants—a half-hearted attempt at modesty—before opening the door to allow Angeal inside. There were no mirrors in the room, but Sephiroth had no doubt he looked drawn, as tired as he felt, something Angeal was sure to comment on. Sephiroth couldn't bring himself to put up any sort of a façade, but it didn't matter. His thoughts were his own; if Angeal pried, he would leave disappointed.

Sephiroth could hear him closing the door behind them, having already turned his back to him to resume dressing, as much as to hide the evidence of the vile lust still coursing through his veins, the overwhelming urge to fuck his anger away.

Angeal didn't approach him, keeping his distance. "Reeve wants to see us."

Sephiroth finished buckling his boots and reached for his coat. "Does he."

"Yes," Angeal said. "Apparently it's urgent."

Sephiroth didn't reply, or make any effort to hasten what he was doing, almost leisurely adjusting his coat, fastening his pauldrons. He didn't bother with his SOLDIER belt or his harness—never did these days. It was no longer necessary, and nostalgia wasn't worth exacerbating the sentiments of disgust and betrayal from the surviving populace, even as they stubbornly clung to the only true strength they had ever known. Sephiroth's loyalty towards Shinra had been middling at best, a marriage of convenience really, and now that there was nothing left, well… he didn't have much cause to mourn. Still, he more often than not wore his uniform, as did Angeal. They were both creatures of habit, he supposed.

He finally turned to face Angeal, pulling on his gloves. "Did Reeve give you any other information?"

"Not yet, no. I only got the call around ten minutes go. All I know is he wants us there as soon as possible."

Sephiroth considered the hairbrush for a moment, but found himself too tired to care. He just pushed the tangled, unwashed mess away from his face, and let out a heavy breath. "Fine."

Angeal was looking at him with that infuriatingly gentle expression Sephiroth wished he would reserve for Zack. "Sephiroth, are you alright? Would you rather I—"

"I'm fine," Sephiroth said, and it was more biting than he'd meant it to be. "And I would prefer you save your concern for someone who needs it."

He didn't wait for a response, pushing past Angeal to open the door, grabbing Masamune on his way. He walked out into a long tunnel, sparsely lit by several torches affixed to the walls—Angeal's doing. Sephiroth preferred the dark.

His was the only room there, located at the end of the otherwise door-less, stone hallway. They walked down the length of it together, Sephiroth occasionally ducking to avoid hitting his head on the uneven ceiling, barely tall enough to accommodate him. It looked longer than it was; the torches burned low, and there was no daylight to creep in through the open entranceway at this hour, but Sephiroth could feel the whisper of a light breeze, and hear the distinct crackling of fire, the soft murmuring of voices, and the ever-present rush of a waterfall.

Deep in the Ancient Forest, in a place called South Sanctuary, thousands of torches dotted the walls of a massive canyon, casting just as many shadows. They illuminated the river, lined the edges above, and even rose up into the trees, many more obscured from the eyes of those who lived below. Two immense bonfires burned not far from where Sephiroth and Angeal had emerged, one on each side, surrounded by SOLDIERs and common men. They were tasked with keeping a careful watch down the river, where the torches lessened and then disappeared altogether into total darkness, and the only sounds were the creak of water mills and the calls of animals, foreign to most who resided there.

Trees with gnarling roots and thick trunks jutted out of the sides of the canyon, supporting the wooden walkways that led to hundreds of openings filled with dozens of rooms, ten floors on either side. And on the surface, clearings for farms and sprawling gardens, row upon of row of cottages, some only half-constructed. There were watchtowers as well, built high into the trees.

Sephiroth's solitary residence was located just a few floors above the ground, and he and Angeal descended fully on a somewhat dubious-looking staircase that curled from top to bottom. The pathways along the river were broad and stony, and the caves large and communal: bathhouses, kitchens, and areas to congregate, mostly deserted at this hour.

Two women were bathing up the river, afforded some privacy under the cover of a lush willow tree with branches long enough to dip into the water, although they had clearly not prepared for company. One of them—a petite girl with mousy hair and doe-eyes—squeaked when she saw them approaching, stumbling gracelessly into the water and sinking in up to her nose. The other—tall and long-limbed—didn't move from her perch on the riverside, eyeing Sephiroth lazily, nonchalantly covering her breasts with one arm. Angeal, ever the gentleman, looked away, but Sephiroth held the woman's gaze until she faltered under the coldness of his eyes.

Sexual interest was nothing new. Not much had changed in that regard. Sephiroth had long since realized that although his image was inextricably bound to Shinra, it was also strangely removed from it. He'd suffered very little vitriol after the fall, standing unscathed next to SOLDIERs bruised and bloody from having rocks thrown at them, dripping with spit, _SOLDIER scum_. People had flocked to him. Somewhere along the line, he'd become his own enterprise, and he inspired fear and desire in equal measure.

So he indulged, just as he always had. Fuck. Discard. Repeat. But with each fresh conquest came an insidious dissatisfaction, an emptiness that ate away at the pleasure. And that emptiness filled Sephiroth with hate.

He'd tried men that looked nothing like him, and then men that looked too much like him, some slender, dark-haired young man facing away. He experimented with being gentle, which did less than nothing to assuage his guilt, and then cruel, which was even worse, and usually culminated in him flipping his partner over so he could be sure the teary eyes looking up at him weren't red.

Nothing felt good anymore.

He hadn't had anyone in months, and any real satisfaction in years, and it was taking its toll. He burned hot with aggression. And he didn't trust his own hand, because he was no longer sure which thoughts were his own, and which were Jade's.

What kind of a monster lusted after a boy who had in all likelihood spent his final months being raped to death.

There were days when all Sephiroth could think about was how much he wished he'd just let Vincent die. That he'd taken one look at that dying boy in the rubble, and walked away. That Hamilton had found someone else. That Vincent had failed to reach the cellphone, and died alone in the dark. That he'd been slaughtered like every other Third there, like he should have been.

That Sephiroth had snapped that pale neck himself.

Angeal interrupted his thoughts, clearly attempting to ease the tension by forcing conversation. "Genesis is due for a transfusion today."

Sephiroth gave a noncommittal _hm_ in response, although he had every intention of fulfilling his end. The hope of finding a cure had long since been dashed. All Angeal and Genesis could do was pray Sephiroth's blood never stopped working, and ignore the fact that as time went on, they needed more and more of it.

They were approaching the waterfall that fed the river, the crash of which muted Angeal's subsequent words effectively enough for Sephiroth to ignore them. Behind it was a well-lit cavern, not entirely shielded from the spray of the fall, which led to a massive double door. Angeal raised his fist and gave it three solid, deliberate knocks. They were returned, and then the doors creaked and groaned, as they were slowly pulled apart.

Sephiroth and Angeal entered and approached the large desk in the middle of room, two SOLDIERs pushing the doors closed behind them, before returning to their posts on either side.

"Gentlemen," Reeve greeted them, offering a tired smile. "Thank you for coming on such short notice."

"It's no problem," Angeal said. "How can we help?"

"Still," Reeve added. "I appreciate it. I know sleep is hard to come by these—"

"You said it was urgent?" Sephiroth interrupted.

Reeve immediately straightened, clearing his throat. "Yes. I just received an emergency distress call from Cosmo Canyon. There's been an attack on the base there. Men from the Freelands, we suspect. It was mostly covert, but two of our men were killed, and they made off with some of the more valuable tech we salvaged from Nibelheim a few months ago. After what happened to East Sanctuary… we can't afford that loss."

Sephiroth scoffed. "East Sanctuary sealed their own fate when they decided to tamper with the remaining reactors. They fell because their greed bound them to the past, and it cost us fifteen thousand lives. _We_ look forward."

"Yes," Reeve conceded. "But we can't just let resources slip through our fingers. This isn't Mako tech. There's no reason to believe it would attract a Weapon. We have to safeguard our own population, Sephiroth, now more than ever. And we can't do that without the appropriate supplies. We need to defend against warlords, not arm them."

Sephiroth supposed he should feel more regretful about East Sanctuary's fate, but he was never one to suffer fools, and every decision they had made was another nail in their proverbial coffin. Settling on the outskirts of Midgar—the primary target of Weaponfall, the first of the major cities to be decimated, and the heart of Mako energy, the very thing that had driven ancient, organic weapons into a froth—was nothing short of moronic, regardless of the seemingly endless supply of salvage the ruined city provided. Perhaps if they had stopped there, everything would have been fine. But they didn't. Mako had already pervaded their minds.

And then, one warm, summer day, South Sanctuary received, in primitive Morse code, a single, long message:

_It's back it's back help us help us help us help us help help help help help help help he_—

And then there was nothing. Communication went dark, and the settlement called East Sanctuary, the largest of only four, was never heard from again.

No scouts were sent on the lengthy and extremely dangerous journey across the sea to search for survivors. The knowledge never even left Reeve's office. They just… pretended it never even happened. Fifteen thousand people. Gone. A drop in the ocean of the millions that had been lost before them.

South Sanctuary was likely the only true civilization left. North Sanctuary—Bone Village—was only two thousand strong, and dangerously close to the Northern Crater. They occupied their time burrowing deeper and deeper into the ground, willfully ignorant of what they might disturb there. And the Wutai, whatever of them was left, cut off all contact with the other continents. _Rot in the grave of your own making, Shinra monsters_.

"What exactly was stolen?" Sephiroth asked.

Reeve faltered somewhat. "I'm not… sure… exactly. The call was brief. The only reason I called on you two specifically is because there is a confirmed Enhanced among their ranks."

Angeal frowned. "How severe is the enhancement?"

"First Class levels, at least. Likely higher, from the look of him. He'll be dangerous."

"Just the one, then," Sephiroth intoned.

Reeve was beginning to look like he'd rather be anywhere else than under the frigid gaze of a sleep-deprived, glowering general. "Yes, to the extent of our knowledge. We estimate them to be about fifty strong, and well armed for a rogue group."

Sephiroth let Reeve squirm for another few seconds, although an Enhanced, even just one, might make the entirely unwelcome imposition at least somewhat worthwhile.

"Fine." Sephiroth turned to leave.

"Wait," Reeve stammered. "You didn't let me give you any instructions."

Sephiroth took a deep breath. "Angeal and I will ride directly to the base, and the men there who _let_ this happen will point us in the direction of the thieves, whom we will then track and dispose of. Is there anything else?"

Reeve sank into his chair, defeated. "… No."

"Thank you, Reeve," Angeal said, smiling sympathetically. "We'll take care of this."

Sephiroth was already through the doors, where he immediately ran into Zack. Angeal quickly caught up, surprised.

"Zack. What are you doing up at this hour? You're not on duty until tomorrow."

Zack was clearly exhausted. His entire face looked pulled down, and his eyes were puffy. "Can't sleep," he said, miserably. "Was hoping Reeve might have something for me to do. It's been…" He swallowed, and tried to hide his glossy eyes. "It's five years today."

Angeal's face softened. "Since Weaponfall."

"Oh. Yeah. That too I guess."

That brought about a moment of silence.

"Are you going somewhere?" Zack finally asked.

"Yes, to Cosmo Canyon," Angeal replied. "There's been an attack. I imagine we'll have it taken care of before evening. I'll see you then."

"Okay," Zack said. "Will you…" He fiddled with the hem of his shirt, biting his lip. "Will you look?"

Angeal put a hand on Zack's shoulder and squeezed, forcing a smile. "I always do."

Sephiroth strode past them, unwilling to tolerate the idiotic conversation any longer. It took every shred of learned decency not to look Zack dead in the eye and tell him how disgustingly childish his hopes were.

Vincent was dead. There was no earthly reason to believe he might still be alive. He had survived the apocalypse—that Sephiroth was sure of—but he could not have survived Jade, who grew tired of his games all too quickly. Interest turned to boredom, and boredom to contempt; the man had _hated_ Sephiroth in the end, and would have happily killed him had he been permitted to. And Vincent… had been old, for Jade, even at the beginning. There was likely little left to amuse him after the satisfaction of showing Sephiroth just what he'd done had withered away.

Sephiroth liked to think that Vincent had died very soon after that, and maybe even in a way that had robbed Jade of the pleasure of doing it himself—a rapid infection, perhaps, or a gentle passing in his sleep from the lingering trauma of one beating too far. But Sephiroth knew… he knew, that Vincent had suffered until his last breath.

Sephiroth tried to convince himself he wouldn't still care if Vincent had died any other way.

"Angeal," he said curtly, itching for a kill.

He heard Angeal sigh. "Try to get some rest, Zack. Think of gentler things."

The bandits had been dispatched, Angeal taking care of the bulk of the troupe while Sephiroth dealt with the Enhanced. It had all been rather disappointing, hardly worth sending them both. Sephiroth had hoped for more from an Enhanced, much more than another thickheaded, Mako-drenched brute playing God in a dystopian sandbox. The man had likely been a First once, if the now garishly embellished uniform was anything to go by. It wasn't exactly unusual, for men bred from violence to see profit in a broken world. He was hardly the first to succumb to the illusive power of an existence divorced from any kind of social contract. And the others, the followers—perhaps Thirds or even guards in this circumstance—were all too easily misled, seduced with promises of freedom and misrule, of raping and pillaging their way through the ruins of civilization. Unaware that they were, as they'd always been, cannon fodder. Such types rarely lasted long. Those that did created their own social orders, which in most cases amounted to little more than tyrannies.

The slaughter, although well deserved, had done nothing to sate Sephiroth's hunger for something, _anything_, resembling vengeance. He wanted a challenge, an opponent upon whom he could unleash the full breadth of his sadism. Someone exceptionally skilled, threatening enough to serve as a stand-in for _him_, never mind the odds of such a man existing. Still, he'd left the degenerate a limbless, headless mess in the dirt for his trouble.

Angeal appeared to disapprove of the undue violence, eyeing the corpse with distaste, although he said nothing. Sephiroth flicked the excess blood from Masamune with significantly more force than was necessary.

"This was a waste of our time."

"Seph—"

"It was," Sephiroth cut him off sharply. "An armed stronghold should not balk at the sight of fifty unenhanced men led by a loutish halfwit. To allow the base to be infiltrated by common thieves is pitiful enough. To contact South Sanctuary for backup grossly disproportionate to the threat is another matter entirely. This outpost was built to serve the sanctuary, not vice versa. Half the men stationed here are former SOLDIERs. I would not have tolerated such incompetence then, and I will not now."

"I'll speak with Reeve when we get back," Angeal conceded. "I think this may simply be an issue of poor leadership. I already have several men in mind I'm confident will do well here. Good men. Better prepared for the job. It shouldn't take them long to whip this place into shape."

"And their predecessors?"

"Have them sent back. I'm sure I can find some use for them. Perhaps something with a little less responsibility, in low-risk territory." He paused for a moment, and smiled. "I'll also stress to Reeve the importance of adequate consideration concerning any and all distress calls," he added indulgently.

Sephiroth huffed a little in amusement. "A shame we are without the luxury of selectivity."

"We do what we can," Angeal replied. He examined the bodies littering the ground, frowning. "You're right. Sending both of us was overkill. Reeve should have just contacted one or two of the outer patrols and redirected them. Even Zack could have finished off this lot with a little backup, although I'd rather he not travel such a dangerous road without me."

"Overprotective as always," Sephiroth mused. "Can you afford to be, in this new world?"

"I've seen the consequences of the alternative," Angeal said gruffly, and Sephiroth bristled.

There was more than a hint of accusation in Angeal's voice, intended or not. Sephiroth knew there was a part of Angeal that would never forgive him for Vincent, for failing to protect him. For failing to behave as a mentor should. He didn't blame Sephiroth for Jade, not really, but what Sephiroth himself had done had borne a far more intimate sort of betrayal. There was a residual anger in Angeal that could not be suppressed, insidiously chipping away at what remained of their friendship. He was aware now, of that part of Sephiroth that was so dishonorable, so selfish… the part that would knowingly abuse a fifteen-year-old boy. Outwardly not much had changed—there was no room for enmity, not with all that had happened—but behind the façade of an unchanged camaraderie, the damage was done. Time would not mend what Sephiroth had broken.

"Should we burn the bodies?" Angeal asked, immediately abandoning the topic.

"No," Sephiroth said. "Leave them as carrion. As for what was stolen, it's not worth the trip back." They'd tracked the thieves several kilometers north of the outpost, and he refused to coddle its men further by running errands for them. "Let them retrieve it themselves if its so important, prove they're not entirely inept."

Angeal sighed, but did not scold Sephiroth for his harshness. "You're sure?"

"Yes."

"Then let's head back."

They walked in silence to where they'd abandoned their motorcycles. Sephiroth's was on its side and half-buried in earth; he'd quite literally launched himself from it at full speed, devastating his initial target in a matter of seconds and crushing another with the machine itself. He effortlessly lifted it from the ground with one arm and began to methodically brush away the debris. Angeal didn't immediately mount his, instead walking a short distance from Sephiroth to climb a gently sloping rock overhanging a part of the ravine. His face was solemn as he scanned the horizon, slowly moving his eyes over great ridges of stone, down into the depths of the chasm, and then up again to the grassy flatland on the other side. Sephiroth tensed, something in his chest twisting unpleasantly.

"He's dead, Angeal."

He wanted to say it firmly, without emotion, but his voice came out murkier, as it often did when he was forced to speak of Vincent. Even in death, the boy seemed to have a way of disturbing his otherwise impregnable control.

"I know," Angeal said. "And I hope it happened years ago. Still, it feels wrong not to try. I promised Zack I always would."

Sephiroth swung his leg over the seat of his motorcycle, tucking his hair into his jacket, avoiding the eyes that were no doubt boring holes into his back.

"Sephiroth—"

"Leave it," he said, his words dripping with acid. He revved up the engine, effectively silencing any further conversation on the matter.

Angeal didn't push him, although his frustration was palpable. Sephiroth knew he was only deepening the divide, corrupting his one remaining friendship, but it almost felt necessary, his only way of regaining the detachment Vincent had destroyed.

He made the executive decision to forego moving southeast, back along the safest, shortest, and most traversed route between Cosmo Canyon and the Ancient Forest. Instead, he led them directly east, just south of the border separating land claimed by the sanctuary and hostile territory. He had several reasons for doing so: primarily, he wanted to carry out a brief patrol of the area in order to eliminate any other rogue factions foolish enough to encroach on sanctuary soil, should they come across them. Angeal appeared to take his reasoning at face value, perhaps convinced by his ire at being deployed for a mission he deemed well below his station—it would, after all, be killing two birds with one stone. But another part of Sephiroth just wanted a few hours of peace, the drone of the motorcycle subduing thoughts he would rather not have, and discussions he would rather avoid.

They didn't chance upon any others—he wasn't sure if this pleased or annoyed him—although Angeal remained painfully aware of their surroundings for the entirety of the trip, and Sephiroth knew it was not for the reason it should have been. Anger settled heavy and familiar in his gut. Zack and Angeal's inability to let go was nonsensical. It went against everything a SOLDIER ought to be, every incident of loss that had come before. What did the man expect, for Vincent to appear before them as if by magic, alone and unharmed in the southernmost part of the Western Continent? Vincent, as they'd known him? That strange, stubborn, _infuriating_ boy Sephiroth had last seen, truly seen, six years ago, and not the young man he barely knew, diminished and lost in the wrong man's arms. What would even be left of him, if he were alive?

Had Vincent really meant so much, for him to be their ruin?

They were approaching the forest now, scorched earth turning rich and green before ascending into a wall of trees so thick it appeared impenetrable. A primitive road had been cleared through the brush leading up to it, but did not continue through the forest itself. The only true path to the heart of South Sanctuary was through its western side. To do any more than that was, for the time being, too severe a burden on their current resources, although its untamed appearance served well as a defensive tactic for their vulnerable north. Sephiroth and Angeal would store their motorcycles in a small armory carved from rock, well camouflaged by foliage and secured with a deadbolt of hardened steel, and then continue on foot.

They were not quite there, however, when Sephiroth stopped very suddenly. Angeal followed suit as quickly as he was able, his motorcycle skidding across the grass as he swung it around to face his friend.

"What is it?"

Sephiroth didn't answer, his eyes fixed on the sky to the north. It had become overcast shortly after they'd departed, but was darkening swiftly now, rolling towards them at an alarming pace. He could hear the distant rumbling of thunder, but there was something else, something an unenhanced ear would not have been able to detect. It was too steady, in too rapid a succession. It was growing louder.

Angeal mistook Sephiroth's behaviour as concern for what appeared to be an approaching storm. "Should we hunker down with the motorcycles until it passes?"

Sephiroth raised his right hand, a signal to wait. With each beat of what was not quite thunder, there was a widespread flurry of wind, each time a little closer, stirring up dust and debris and strong enough to force trees and plants alike to bend under the pressure. Sephiroth could feel the hairs on his nape prickling.

"Sephiroth," Angeal said, his voice edged with worry. "We need to—"

He was interrupted by a sound unlike anything Sephiroth had heard before. It was almost akin to a death rattle, but deeper, more resounding, layered in a way that made it seem as if it were originating from more than one source. There was something distressingly organic about it. Sephiroth drew his sword, an action Angeal mirrored. The rumbling was almost upon them, sounding more and more like the beat of a colossal wing. Sephiroth braced himself.

The wind, when it hit, was nearly overpowering. It was strong enough to pull his hair from his jacket, the strands lashing against the exposed skin of his face and chest. He was forced to lower his head behind his right arm, or risk being blinded by the tornado of earth whipping around them. Even so, a rock struck his forehead with enough force to break the skin; Sephiroth could feel the wetness of blood oozing from his temple. He hadn't put up a force field in an effort to preserve his magic, instinct telling him he would need every bit of it. He anchored Masamune into the ground, and looked up through watering eyes just as a bolt of lightning ignited the sky.

Through the clouds, the shadow of something winged and monstrous moved sinuously towards South Sanctuary.

Dread filled his throat so abruptly it took every modicum of his infamous self-control to force the words past his lips. "Angeal," he said. "Shields up."

The wind had settled enough for Sephiroth to look Angeal in the eye, and see, for the first time, genuine fear. Sephiroth himself made no attempt to mask the emotion eclipsing his face. "Shields up," he repeated. "Now."

And then he sent three slashes of energy up through the clouds.

There was another bellowing death rattle, the rumbling turning arrhythmic for a moment, before resuming a steady, albeit hastened tempo. The wind, which had been moving away from them, adjusted its path. Four immense sets of gunmetal claws pierced through the clouds.

Sephiroth accelerated, his motorcycle kicking up a spray of grass and dirt before the wheels finally found enough purchase to launch it forward. He turned sharply, pushing the machine to its limits to get the Weapon as far away from the forest as possible. He could hear Angeal close behind him. Sephiroth would have preferred he continue on without him, to warn everyone, order them into the caves—as if it would make a difference.

Sephiroth had known, of course, that something of that size could not be outrun, but he was still surprised at just how quickly they were overcome. The wind hit again, throwing him off-kilter, although he managed to steady himself. But then the creature met the ground, and the shockwave was so intense it threw the entire motorcycle. Sephiroth leapt into a crouch on the seat, and then pushed himself upwards and away from it, landing safely on his feet nearby.

Angeal was less fortunate. He managed to disengage himself from his own, but fell directly in its path, with no time to dodge. He raised his sword arm to protect his head, and Sephiroth heard the audible _snap_ when it made impact. The motorcycle rolled over him, sending the Buster Sword flying far out of reach.

Sephiroth could see that Angeal was stunned and in pain. _Get up_, he wanted to say. _Run_. But confronted with one of the Planet's Weapons, he was utterly speechless. The enormous wings beat a few more times as the creature found its balance, and then it looked at Sephiroth with its beady eyes, and smiled.

Sephiroth had never actually seen any of the Weapons, stranded in the snow outside Icicle Inn as the world was torn apart. Only in the aftermath had he had them described to him, and he'd believed them exaggerated, even knowing what they could do. But this defied belief.

The Weapon was truly grotesque, both beast and machine, six-limbed and winged, with a body the colour of blackened blood and a great, glowing eye embedded in its chest.

Its purpose was singular.

Destroy.

It reared up on its back legs, and aimed one heavy, clawed foot at Angeal. Sephiroth reacted instantly, striking the appendage with five streaks of blue in quick succession, sending it stumbling backwards. Rumbling, it gnashed its sharp, exposed teeth, and turned on him.

The Weapon wasn't as fast as Sephiroth, burdened by its own mass, but it compensated for that particular drawback with both sheer size and relentless purpose. Sephiroth was forced to expend most of his energy just dodging its surprisingly deft hands, while simultaneously avoiding the feet that met the ground again and again in an attempt to crush him—each impact sending him rolling—and the impossibly huge tail the creature would swing at him like a whip. It occasionally even went after him with its mouth, jaws snapping shut just behind him.

It was playing with Sephiroth like he was a fucking ant, strange, deep sounds resonating from its chest that sounded suspiciously like human laughter, disturbingly sentient.

The eye in the Weapon's chest had been growing brighter throughout the fight, and it was almost blinding now. Sephiroth was becoming desperate. The spheres and streaks of energy seemed to irritate more than damage, and Masamune, which was capable of cutting through metal like butter given the right handler, slid harmlessly off its body with every strike. Sephiroth tried to get under it, find a weak spot, but its body was armored like a tank. He considered attempting to mount it, but it was burning hot to the touch, searing through his boot in seconds.

Sephiroth's magic was running critically low.

Frustrated with Sephiroth's speed, the creature turned back to Angeal, who hadn't moved, seemingly in shock. Sephiroth threw himself in front of him, putting up a shield. The force of the first hit drove his feet into the ground up to his ankles. The second broke them. His shield shattered, magic completely drained.

Sephiroth managed to avoid one last swipe of the Weapon's claws, grabbing Angeal and throwing them both out of its path, but the other hand was already coming down.

Time stood still for a moment.

Sephiroth closed his eyes. Just held Angeal in his arms. He didn't look at him, or apologize for all the things he had done. The thought that he could even do so was an illusion of the time they no longer had. He let out a breath, smooth and long. Then he bowed his head until he felt Angeal's forehead against his own, and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Surely this couldn't be death.

He could still hear Angeal breathing, and feel the weight of him in his arms, the warmth. He was distinctly aware of the agonizing pain radiating from his ankles. And his own heartbeat, still pushing blood through his veins, pounding in his ears and his throat.

Sephiroth opened his eyes.

The air thrummed with energy. A sphere of magic swirled around them: black, but transparent like smoke, with tendrils of red that moved through it like dye in water, and flashes and crackles of gold.

He could see the Weapon through it, shrieking and rattling. One clawed hand gouged deep scars into the earth, while the other thrashed violently in the air, that same, strange magic writhing around it.

And there, in front of the creature, behind the shield of red and black and gold, stood a hooded figure dressed in black. Their thin, pale arms were stretched out above them, palms raised and fingers splayed, struggling to maintain the force field. They were visibly shaking and breathing hard, as if the magic pulsing out of them were agony.

They faltered momentarily, one knee buckling under the pressure, but caught themselves and straightened again. Sephiroth moved on instinct, attempting to stand despite his badly damaged ankles, already reaching out to steady them. But one of the hands shot back to stop him, smoke and lightning unfurling harmlessly around his body.

Their head turned, just enough that Sephiroth could see, past the hood and through stringy, black hair, eyes that glowed as red as blood.

* * *

**This story will continue exclusively on AO3.**


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